


Fully Formed, in Armor

by bythedamned



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Cap!Stella Rogers, Captain America Big Bang 2019 | cabigbang, Coming Out, F/F, Female Bucky Barnes, Female Steve Rogers, Feminism, Femslash, Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, Lesbian Sex, Lesbians, Modern Bucky Barnes, Modern Era, Not MCU compliant, Past Stella Rogers/Peggy Carter, Pepper Potts Is a Good Bro, Period-Typical Homophobia, Phil Coulson Is a Good Bro, Slow Burn, Stella Rogers/Becky Barnes, Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Stucky - Freeform, Twitter, Winter Soldier!Becky Barnes, actual politics, identity politics, lesbian hair styles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-24 17:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21341773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bythedamned/pseuds/bythedamned
Summary: Captain Stella Rogers is remembered as a symbol of American victory and the founder of modern-day feminism. That leaves big shoes to fill when she's pulled from the ice alone, ill at ease in her own skin, and missing a love she can’t tell anyone about.Becky Barnes has gone through too much of her own shit to have any time for Stella’s. But she knows how hard it is to rebuild a life in New York City and, besides, she’s got a type.
Relationships: Becky Barnes/Stella Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 33
Kudos: 143
Collections: Captain America Big Bang 2019 | cabigbang





	1. CHAPTER 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was created for the Captain America Big Bang 2019. It is a departure from both the MCU canon and my typical subject matter, and all the better for it.  
  
It was pleasure collaborating with the super talented artist verbalatte. Definitely check out her art in the fic, and head over to her [tumblr](https://verbalatte.tumblr.com) to share some love.  
  
And of course, a thousand sonic-boom shout outs to my glorious beta, [elvelethril](https://elvelethril.livejournal.com/), who has been making my fic possible for years.

Captain America had two jobs – drum up support for the American government, and protect the American people. Those had always been her jobs, though once she stopped selling war bonds from local theaters and high school auditoriums, the order of those priorities had flipped. At least, they had for her – the brass didn’t seem so sure. But SHIELD had found her, and seemed to think they ought to care for her like one would an abandoned puppy – gently, but with locked doors and too many trips to the doctor’s office. But once Stella found out that SHIELD was merely Peggy’s offshoot of the SSR, she did them the courtesy of hearing them out.

Although, now that she was back, they said they wanted her on the ground in Chechnya. And Slovakia and Belarus. “Of course,” they said, and there were talks of maybe even sending her to Syria, even though those were all brand new countries she knew nothing about. They asked for her to be another set of hands on the ground, but what they actually wanted was a spokesperson. Public Relations, they called it now. Which sounded overly-intimate to Stella’s ear, but so be it.

Captain America’s true power, they assured her, was in reaching through the modern culture of disillusionment and media-exposed desensitization – did she know what Facebook was? – and re-invigorating the American public. They gave her textbooks on herself, and starch-white sheets of paper with excessively-neat typed out lines and color photographs developed straight into the paper. They said they had done her the favor of printing those articles from online – did she know what the internet was? – and explained how the Captain America brand had survived even the most extreme crises of public opinion. Both because of, and in spite of, the tendency for people to invoke her image to back their own causes.

As it turned out, while the American people held their breaths through the fruitless search for the crashed Valkyrie, the Red Cross had printed ads of a plane wing jutting out of a frozen tundra with the slogan “Be Brave Enough to Make the Sacrifice. Donate Blood Now”.

Later, when President Kennedy mangled an invasion into Cuba, he had apparently asked himself: What would Cap do? And told the public in a televised speech: “Captain America knew the value of truth, and taking on the burden of leadership. And in these recent tragedies, I am the responsible officer of the government.”

And several presidents had tried to justify their military involvement in foreign affairs by using her name – both Vietnam and Iraq seemed notable there – but rather than disavow her shield people had raised rally signs that read: “Even Cap would agree: Drop War, Not Bombs!”

Stella did agree, and was gratified to learn that the recklessness of men hungry for natural resources and power hadn’t tarnished her own reputation. It seemed dying in defense of one’s country had that advantage. She was also, separately, intrigued that color printing had advanced so far, but knew to keep her mouth shut on both accounts.

And so, after only a month of devouring history textbooks and gritting her teeth through blood draws, medical questionnaires and something terrible called a “pap smear”, Stella was finally talking about the future instead of the past. She sat in an office on the 30th floor of a Manhattan skyscraper, listening to man much older than her explain that her image – her _brand _– was a resource that needed to be cultivated and guarded. She was mildly relieved to hear that they would provide her with a PR agent to ‘rebrand’ her image. But far more relieved to hear that she could finally leave SHIELD Headquarters. Right after she met with that PR agent.

Of course.

____

Ms. Heather Harrow, who wore pumps like she was in her twenties but picked at her nails like a schoolgirl, greeted Stella loudly.

“Hello there,” she called out as soon as Stella appeared at the end of her hallway. Her arms were flung wide, like she was waiting to embrace Stella, but luckily let them drop once she got close enough to usher Stella into her office. It was a comfortable size, with a view of the East River, which told Stella she was doing alright for herself. Stella sat where she was directed, while Ms. Harrow leaned against the front edge of her large, wooden desk so there was scarcely six inches between her and Stella’s own knees. It made her seem very tall, though Stella didn’t think she was.

“It’s so good to meet you,” she cooed, reaching out to grasp Stella’s hand, which she allowed. “I’m Heather Harrow, but you can call me Heather.”

“Pleased to meet you. Please call me Stella.”

“Oh, good!” She lit up, casually shaking some of her coiffed blonde hair behind her shoulder. “I’m so glad we won’t have to stand on ceremony. And such a pretty name – I’m so glad we won’t have to sell _Ethel_. Or Bertha, wow.”

Stella frowned. There had been two Ethels in her Sunday School that were both married off by twenty; she didn’t see the problem.

Heather Harrow went on to promise that she’d make everything easy – “Super duper easy” – and promised she’d handle all the heavy lifting – wink wink, nudge nudge – until Stella got used to regular life. Stella wondered at her choice of words; most people called it _modern life_ or, if they were trying to sympathize with her, _the future_. But there was, as Heather said, a lot to cover, so she didn’t dwell on it.

“So.” She let her clasped hands fall into her lap. “Let’s talk about you.”

“Alright.”

“Alright. As your agent, my job is to make sure people like the side of you that they see, and that they see the side of you that they like. Make sense?”

“Yes. I’m used to the dog and pony show.”

“Awesome.” Her smile crinkled at her eyes, and Stella noticed the small clumps of mascara on her lashes. “So, there’s the Captain America you, who’s very strong and heroic, and that’s great. And then there’s the domestic you, which is the you people really want to know.

Stella nodded. “I assumed I’d need to do an interview? Or two?”

Heather winced, and Stella sat up straighter. “Sure. I mean, yes, you’ll have to do a several interviews. But that’s the thing about 2011 – the news coverage is twenty-four/seven. Have you been introduced to Twitter yet?”

Stella clutched her palms over her knees to keep from fidgeting, and tightly shook her head. People kept asking her these things as if she’d made time to explore this invisible phone book they’d created. As if she cared enough to.

“Okay then, we’ll get to that later. The only point I’m trying to make – umph,” she leaned back dramatically far across her desk to grab the little black micro-computer that everyone kept calling ‘phones’ and fiddled with it. “Let’s see. All I’m saying is that I know Kim Kardashian had a kale salad for lunch and that she chipped one of her acrylics on the way out.”

“I–” Stella stalled, trying to make sense of half the words in that sentence, but found that most of them were nonsense to her. “What does that mean?”

“It means that people are obsessed with celebrities’ lives. And that to be a celebrity, you have to share a lot more of yourself with the world than you used to.”

“Why would a reporter print that?”

“That’s exactly it, they don’t need to,” Heather explained. “Kim told the world that herself. People follow every little part of her day because she lets them. She invites them to.”

“That’s terrible,” Stella said, and sat up more stiffly. “I – I don’t want that.”

“I know, honey. And we’ll do our best to maintain your privacy. But that’s why it’s important we decide now – who do you want to be?”

Stella balked, trying to imagine any one of her numerous secrets being made known. “I just want to be Captain America.” It was enough to make her stomach churn, and she didn’t see why she owed the public anything beyond her public persona. She could hear how plaintive her voice sounded, and it had to be obvious enough because Heather winced again, this time in evident sympathy. She looked like someone sitting on bad news, maybe about the death of a loved one, or the stock market crash.

“There must be something else you could share? To let them feel like they know you?”

_They do know me,_ Stella thought, even though ‘they’ were a generation long buried and gone. But they had known her – what she stood for and the lengths she was willing to go to for those ideals. And what’s more, they’d listened to her. Enlistment was up twenty percent while she was active – mostly among the men, because the fellas didn’t like the idea that a girl could be over there punching Nazis while they hid under their mama’s bedcovers – but women’s enlistment had gone up too. Stella had spoken openly about the need for it, enough so that some reporter had heckled her at three separate public appearances before he’d finally demanded to know whether she was ruining GI morale by making sure there were no more women waiting at home for them. Stella still remembered that moment – the indignant rush of anger, and Peggy’s voice in her mind going _‘that little twerp'. _So she’d said back, direct as you please, “No point to a woman in the kitchen if there’s no one left to cook for. We go where we’re needed.”

That had been the next morning’s headlines and, after that, women had flocked to the Women’s Army Auxiliary Core. And also the Red Cross and the factories and the scrap drives. They’d left their homes to become wardens and fire officers and nurses and riveters. They were 400,000 strong before the war was over, united by the slogan, _If Cap can do it, I can do it! _Peggy, who had been running her own recruiting efforts in England, had been so proud of her. And she knew that that, alongside everything else, had been her legacy. Because as much as Stella respected her fellow army-men – and she did, it was their efforts on the ground that brought in victory – she didn’t think they could have won the war without the female work force.

“… you with me? Stella?”

Stella looked up to see her new PR agent hunched over in her face, brows knitted.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

“I’m here. Yes. I was just… remembering.”

“Oh yeah?” Heather asked, politely.

“If they want to know me, they have to know Captain America.”

Heather slumped back on her desk, arms crossed. “I’m pretty sure we all got the ‘Nazis – bad’ message loud and clear.”

Stella was starting to dislike this conversation, and this whole process. “That’s not the only thought I have. I’m also a big believer of government subsidies and women in the workplace.”

“We are in the workplace, Stella.”

“But for the same pay? And recognition?” Despite the fact that Heather was still hovering over her, Stella squared her shoulders and looked right up at her. “I’ll admit I don’t know. I’ll retire right now if those are a done deal, but I’ve got to see it for myself first.”

Heather sighed, loudly, then shook her head. But she muttered, “Fine. Fine. It’s your career. You can be Captain America, Role Model to Women Everywhere. That means you need to get their attention.”

Stella nodded, firmly. “And that’s where you come in, right?”

Heather’s returning smile was, surprisingly, genuine, if a little tired. “Of course, honey. I’m not trying to douse your thunder. It’s just going to take some work for you to come out swinging without taking some heat.”

“I can handle heat over that. Especially if you help me figure out where it’s coming from. You know, on – the internet.”

Heather honest-to-God chuckled. “I can do that.” And Stella was nearly ready to relax when she added, “But you will have to learn Twitter eventually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: The references to wartime rhetoric are based on facts. President Kennedy admitted he'd made a mistake launching an invasion during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and he gave a speech to that effect where he acknowledged himself as 'the responsible officer of the government'. Admitting he was wrong greatly boosted his popularity. And 'Drop War, Not Bombs' is a common anti-war protest slogan used in both the Vietnam and Iraq wars.


	2. CHAPTER 2

Before Stella could be a role model in this new century, she had to figure out how to survive it.

SHIELD supplied her with her own apartment – somewhere on the Upper East Side, pricey in a way that made Stella feel vaguely dirty – and sent messages to the computer they’d installed for her that she was supposed to check daily. Other than that, they mostly left her alone until the day a robot came knocking at her door.

She opened it, expecting one of her nosy, not-so-undercover agent neighbors, and instead found a red and gold eyesore gleaming under the hallway lights. 

“Hey there,” it said, before its faceplate popped open and up to reveal a face. Howard’s son – she’d read about him – the sometimes media darling/sometimes gate crasher, computer billionaire. “I heard your phone doesn’t do texts.” He then raised a robot hand and said, “Tony Stark. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”

“Sorry, no, but I’m really new here,” she said, just because she could. And because someone showing up to her home address unannounced and dressed for space combat needed to be jerked around, just a little.

He faltered, visibly, before his eyes narrowed. “Oh. Oh, you’re good. I can think of at least five people I never want you to meet. But unfortunately for me, I was planning to introduce you to all of them.”

Stella grinned, and waved him in. As it turned out, Stark was there to make her an offer.

“Think of it like sleep away camp for superheroes. In Manhattan. Only, less exile and more fun. And I can get you a phone that texts.”

“You want me to… live with you?”

“Oh, please,” Stark rolled his eyes. “I’m offering you a penthouse suite in some of Midtown’s prime real estate.” When Stella didn’t budge, he added, “Pepper used to live here – that’s my girl. And CEO. Anyway. She used to live up here, says it’s real stuffy, not at all a good first impression of our fair New York.”

“I know New York,” Stella countered. “I’m from New York.”

“Don’t we all know it,” Tony answered, unphased. “Look. It’s yours if you want it. I didn’t really expect you to take a stranger up on a new living arrangement, but Pepper wanted us to make the offer.”

“So why isn’t Pepper here?”

“That’s a good question. Can I tell her you said that?” He pointed a finger in Stella’s direction. “I’m gonna tell her you said that.”

“And she thought I’d want to move in with you because it’s less boring?”

“Again – into my _building_, not my living room. But yes, Uptown is where fun comes to die. Well, and we have a talking AI that will answer all your questions, off the record, and with no judgement whatsoever.”

And Jarvis – once Stella actually understood who and what Jarvis was – was the selling point. Which meant that 1) she moved into the tower within the week and 2) Pepper was right, because as it turned out, she usually was.

On the day she moved in, her meager belongings in three boxes that fit easily on a handtruck, Pepper met her at the door. She was tall and elegant, as neatly manicured as Stark was, and gave Stella little European cheek-kisses when she greeted her.

“Captain Rogers. It’s lovely to meet you at last.”

“Likewise, Mrs. Stark.”

“Oh, please,” she swatted a hand through the air. “Call me Pepper, but it’s Miss Potts, anyway.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be.” She leaned in, conspiratorially, “I just haven’t decided if I’m going to let him marry me yet. Now, should we get you settled?”

Pepper showed her all the various keycards she would need – and weren’t those a hoot – for the several doors and elevators that protected her suite, the amenities and the common areas. Stella was well aware that Miss Potts was far too important to spend time showing her things like where the trash chute was, so she appreciated the effort all the more.

“I do hope we see more of each other,” Pepper said as she was leaving, with a smile that seemed genuine. “You were so right that I should have come to the Upper East Side to convince you about this place – Tony can just fly there so quickly—” She waved a hand through the air. “Anyway, I hope you’ll let me make it up by having dinner with us this Friday?”

“I’d love to. What, uh, floor are you on?”

“Oh, JARVIS will lead you there, don’t worry.”

Of course. Jarvis. The talking robot in the walls. Luckily, Tony stopped by shortly after, to introduce them.

“How do you like the digs, eh? That means apartment, by the way. Living space. El casa. All the cool kids are saying it.”

“It’s very lovely, thank you again.”

Tony shook a finger at her – something he seemed to do quite frequently. “We’ll shake those manners out of you eventually, mark my words. But anyway, we’re not here to compliment me on my decorator – we’re here to meet my AI. JARVIS?”

“Hello Sir. Captain Rogers.”

Stella felt the blood drain from her face, and forced a laugh. “Joseph and Mary, that really is something.”

“Forgive me, Captain. I know my presence can be jarring. Perhaps it would help if I switched my surround-sound to a—unidirectional speaker?”

Mid-sentence, the overpowering voice that echoed from the walls was only coming from her left, up near the corner, and Stella was surprised to feel her own shoulders relaxing. “Yes. Um. Yes, thank you.”

“Alright,” Tony interrupted, “let’s take care of the basics. First, JARVIS, Captain Rogers has complete access to the non-proprietary parts of the Tower—”

“Acknowledged.”

“And complete A/V privacy.”

“Vegas Protocol, Sir?”

“Yup.” He strung off an alpha-numeric code, and then side-eyed Stella. “Don’t bother remembering that one, Super Soldier, it changes every time I use it.”

Stella shrugged. She had already memorized it. “What’s Vegas?”

“Ah, right. You probably haven’t heard that one yet. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

She nodded. That seemed appropriate, for a living quarters. “Okay. But, what is Vegas?”

____

Only later, once Stella had rummaged around her new quarters and availed herself of the food from the icebox in the common kitchen, did she turn her attention to the house-robot. She sat on the edge of the couch, back straight, and spoke into the empty room. “Jarvis?”

“Hello, Captain Rogers.”

“May I ask you a question?”

“Of course, Captain.”

“Who controls what you say to me?”

There was only the briefest of pauses. “That’s a very philosophical question.”

“No,” Stella said immediately. “In actuality. Who determines what you say to me?”

“In the literal sense, Mr. Stark created me. He determined how I would interact with people, and what information I would have access to.”

Stella slumped into the couch. Of course.

“—But in the immediate sense, and the sense I believe you mean, I have been operating independently for several years. As a self-teaching artificial intelligence system, I have analyzed over three million hours of recorded human interaction, speech patterns, and behavioral outcomes, and used this to understand people’s intentions when they speak. For example, you are concerned that I will filter the information I provide you, or make our conversations accessible to those outside this room, but I assure you neither of those are the case.”

“Or Mr. Stark told you to say that.”

“Captain Rogers,” the wall said, and though its tone and cadence was the same, Stella imagined it was reprimanding her. “If I may?”

Stella adjusted her seat on the couch and re-crossed her legs, waiting.

“Given your situation, I believe I can be of the most help to you if I teach you how to query these things yourself. I presume you have been familiarized with the internet?”

Stella almost sighed out loud. “Yes, I know what Google is.”

“Of course,” the wall said, politely. “But did you know that the way you word a query can impact your results? Or that most public libraries have transferred even their archived material to a digital format, accessible from this very room? This includes auditory and non-conventional media, as well as records of news coverage from historical events and even obituaries.”

Obituaries. Stella rolled the word around on her tongue, and her chest tightened. Those would be the only link she had to, well, almost everyone she’d ever known. Her old neighbors. The Commandos. She still remembered her Ma’s obituary, and how it had painted her as a loving, but over-worked nurse, survived by her one unwed daughter, Stella Rogers. The only person’s obit Stella would have felt compelled to read now was Peggy’s. But if Stella knew her – and she did – Peggy would put off dying just because she hadn’t found the proper biographer to write it yet.

Instead Stella said, with a straight back and a high chin, “I’d like to see the history of SHIELD, and Director Carter’s influence in it.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Without warning, a seam in the wall started to split, and for a hysterical moment Stella thought a robot might finally be revealed behind the walls. Instead, it unveiled a monstrously large television, and a small shelf with a keyboard on it.

“How are your typing skills?” the wall asked, and Stella nearly gave the corner a dirty look.

She wasn’t entering into a steno pool, she didn’t need to type as fast as Hill, or Fury. She had two hands, and eyes to see. “I get by.”

“In that case, would you like to launch the Google search page?”

Silently, she turned to the keyboard and moved the blinking line to the white space where she knew she was supposed to type, and found the G with her pointer finger. Then the O.

“You’ll need to start most web addresses with the letters w, w, w, followed by a period.”

Stella did sigh, aloud this time, and started over.

And so it went, aggravatingly slow, with the robot helping as little as possible. She resented the hell out of it for promising a landfall of information only to use it as an ‘instructional moment’, but the robot wasn’t wrong. She was, admittedly, learning new skills that most people already expected her to have, and there was no one around to see her foibles except a voice in the corner. Within an hour, she’d learned how to bookmark pages, that almost everything – up to and including the New York Public Library – required a unique identifier and password, and that she could let the internet save those passwords but she never ever should. She also took a look at modern fashion, so as not to be the local eye-sore, and found that dames could get away with pretty much anything these days. In response, Stella bid a silent but gleeful farewell to ever wearing stockings or victory curls again.

And lastly, she learned that Peggy had yet to find the immovable object that could stand in the way of her unstoppable force, which meant that at least one thing in this world was still as it should be, and Stella smiled.

____

Dinner with Stark and Miss Potts was a surprisingly easy affair. She showed up in a pair of slacks that would have been a downright statement back home but, she was glad to note, garnered absolutely no comment from either of her hosts. Stella also brought a bottle of wine that she’d purposefully bought outside the Tower, and which Pepper thanked her heartily for before tucking it away and bringing out one of her own. Of course, Tony asked the obligatory question of how she was enjoying the ‘future’, and Stella gave her canned answer that “The food’s good”, which let them move on to safer topics. It worked every time. But beyond that, none of their questions were too personal, or too classified. Stella had noticed that a lot of people – especially SHIELD’s people – had old war ‘theories’ they were hoping she’d confirm. Most simply thought that whatever stroke of good luck the Allies had stumbled upon was masterminded by the one and only Director Peggy Carter, but one unlucky assistant had even gone so far as to imply Stella, herself, had been Hydra all along.

Stella blinked that thought away. No – tonight it was just friendly, get-to-know-you dinner conversation. She’d even left her SHIELD-issued miniature computer/phone behind, because it had been beeping about her upcoming press conference all day and, Stella figured, if the world was actually ending, they’d call Tony too.

She and Pepper compared notes on all the art museums around the city that were still standing and still worth the entry fare. And Tony, it turned out, was an avid card player. Which was swell, because if there was one thing a soldier knew, it was cards. 

“Don’t let him fool you into a game, though,” Pepper warned, stage-whispering across the table. “He’s been kicked out of every casino in Vegas for counting cards.”

Stella raised an eyebrow – glad that Jarvis had told her that Las Vegas was a gambling hub, and about what got on there. “That could make for an interesting game, then.”

Tony’s mouth twitched. “Oh? Do tell.”

“Well, I always played fair. But at some point, I’d won so many of the fellas’ rations that they stole my bootlaces to dry their laundry on.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“They could have done much worse,” Stella agreed. “But you look like a real heel trying to walk without losing your boots in two feet of snow. Slowed me down enough that they were able to ransack my tent for cigarettes too, as ‘recompense’, but….” She grinned, letting her dinner hosts think whatever they wanted. The Commandos had also replaced those cigarettes with a freshly-used condom, but she wasn’t about to tell a nice dame like Pepper that.

“I say we get a game going,” Tony announced, and slapped a hand on the table, making the glassware all rattle.

“Oh, Tony—” Pepper started.

He held up the hand. “Not tonight, and not for money. I don’t know what for – got any ideas? What do you want, Cap?”

“Call me Stella, please.”

He waved the thought away. “That’s a freebie. But let’s think of something to play for by, say, next Friday?”

Pepper placed a casual hand on his shoulder. “Babe, we’re at that thing, remember?”

“Oh, right. We’ve got a thing. Next Monday? You want to play then?”

“Sure. I’ll think of what I want.”

“Well, _I_ want—” Pepper stood, a little wobbly but still poised, “another bottle of wine. Any takers?”

____

Living in the tower made it easy to develop a schedule. Every day she ran a few laps around Central Park or spent a few hours lifting weights in the Tower’s mostly-deserted gym. Every evening, Jarvis introduced her to a few of the endless things he thought she should know. One night it was the invention of color printers, Elvis, and Roe vs Wade. The next, it was lattes, battered women’s shelters, and the GI Bill. And on the next night, just as he was getting started, she said, “What about the moon? I heard we made it to the moon?”

The only break in her routine was her regularly scheduled visits to HQ to see Heather Harrow – which happened so often they might as well’ve been routine – and the televised press conference she’d organized. It was in HQ itself, in a small conference room meant to emphasize the exclusivity of the news outlets invited, Heather explained, and all the questions had been pre-screened. It had been decided, somehow, that Stella would wear a ‘vintage’ replica of her Cap suit, made sometime in the 1990s. Apparently, Heather had also considered a navy blue pant suit – “You know, like Hillary” – but decided that a little old fashioned patriotism was just what people needed. Stella just had to show up and read a short statement where she thanked people for coming, told them she was glad to be back, and that her top priority was protecting the American people. She wasn’t sure she agreed on any of those points but, given that she couldn’t trust her gut instincts about what to say to the twenty-first century, she was grateful for the cue cards.

‘Pre-screening’ didn’t seem to have the same power, though, because in between all the questions about what she thought of the future, there were plenty more about who she missed the most, whether she’d left a sweetheart behind, and whether she’d be looking to start a family now. When she asked Heather about it later, she’d only leaned up to swat at Stella’s shoulder and said, “Oh, come on. Those were harmless. People want to know the real you, remember?”

Later, after Stella had let herself collapse face-first into her bed for an hour or two and was finally upright again, she checked in with Jarvis. She’d disabled him in the bedroom, because computer or not there were some things he didn’t need to see, but he greeted her as soon as she emerged back into the well-lit living room.

“Good evening, Captain.”

She grunted. “Already?”

“Indeed. Your publicized conference has been in circulation for almost five hours, and already has two million hits and three separate memes. Would you like to see?”

“God, no.” She didn’t bother asking what a meme was – Jarvis would put it on the list eventually – but she did ask whether there was a well-known Hillary who wore suits (there was) and whether people preferred to ask invasively personal questions at press conferences (inconclusive). In that moment, Stella actually looked forward to returning to her dull routine.

But still, even with the new routine of seeing Tony and Pepper every week for their poker game with ‘to be determined’ stakes, time dragged on. After two weeks in the Tower, Stella was a pro at dodging Heather’s calls (the phones _did_ tell you who was calling now, which was essentially cheating) and after a month she was begging for active duty.

Quite literally, in fact, did she find herself in Fury’s office, asking to do something useful.

“Of course, Cap,” Fury said, hands spread agreeably over his desk. “All you had to do was ask.”

Which was a filthy lie, but she did them both the favor of not pointing that out. She did balk when he tried to put her in charge, but Fury’s face stayed as passive as ever.

“Come on. You can’t be Captain if you’re not in charge—”

Stella resolved never to trust anything he said.

“—besides, no one else wants to drive this Crazy Train, so the honor is yours.” He slid a stack of five dossiers across to her. “Good luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: While Vegas did exist in the early 20th century, gambling wasn’t legalized there until the '30s and the first resort hotel on that was anything like modern-day Vegas was El Rancho Vegas, which opened in 1946. Either way, I went with the theory that it would be unlikely a young, poor girl who’d never left New York City before joining the war effort would have heard about Vegas before its hey-day.
> 
> Also, given that in the 1930s typewriters were mostly limited to clerical jobs (mostly secretaries, stenographers, etc), there would have been no need for a woman not in those jobs to ever learn how to type. So, not only would the internet come as a shock to Stella, but the expectation of using a keyboard would too.


	3. CHAPTER 3

Her task force, as she thought of it, was less of a tight unit and more of a roster of available agents. There were some regulars though – like Stark, with his robot suit, and an amazingly effective female Russian ex-pat named Romanov – as well as a few other tactical personnel with long-range sniping and air support skills. Their first mission was more of an errand than anything else, escorting a high value target from a military air base to SHIELD’s strategic facility in rural New York. Stella thought it was a waste of their skills, actually, until she realized their driver hadn’t turned his head to so much as check his mirrors in over twenty minutes, and was actually being mind-controlled through his communications earpiece. It was a harsh reminder of how she would need to catch up on the conflict risk posed by modern technological advancements, but her team handled the threat better than she’d hoped. Stark had deactivated this decoy van’s power-steering and was pushing it along in his suit, whereas Romanov had just put every agent around – friendly or not – into a sleeper hold until they passed out and was driving the van herself. Stella, who was actually riding with the target, had sent a brief SOS to her team before destroying everyone’s comms units and wrestling her way into the driver’s seat. It wasn’t the cleanest op, but it was a job well done.

A few weeks later, when Stella finally heard about the fathead name their team had gotten, it was too late to change it. But it solidified them as a functional team and, Stella was beginning to think, maybe as soldiers in arms, as well.

____

Stella had been on active duty for over two months when she found herself waiting at the oblong table in Meeting Room A of the Tower. Ostensibly, the A was for Avengers, or maybe Assemble, since there was no Meeting Room B through Z anywhere in the Tower. Which was so very… Tony.

So, Stella waited at the conference table, sipping at her coffee. It was hot, undoctored by all the whipped cream and frills of the espresso machine in the entryway, and therefore good. She missed the buzz of a good caffeine hit sometimes; she didn’t rely on it – not that it would work even if she did – but there was something comforting about knowing a sluggish, uninspired start to her day could be fixed with something small enough to fit into a cup. She drank it now because it was one of the few things that hadn’t evolved over the twentieth century – black coffee, at least – and because Tony said it made her look relatable. Three months back above ground, and that still was an ongoing area for improvement, being ‘relatable’.

Natasha finally arrived, silent but alert enough for the early hour. She was quickly followed by Tony and then Tony’s latest pet project – a palm-sized flying drone that flashed keyboard-style approximations of smiling faces in different moods to match Tony’s mutterings. The faces were always displayed sideways, for some reason, though Stella hadn’t yet bothered to figure out why.

“This it?” Tony asked. “I don’t usually get out of bed for fewer than three Avengers.”

“It’s three now,” Nat answered, calm as ever, and Tony slumped into a chair that he immediately began to swivel.

“We’re waiting on a fourth, actually,” Stella added. “With Clint laid up and Sam in DC, we need someone new for aerial support.”

That perked them up, and Natasha asked, “In what capacity?”

“As a temporary placement from one of the stealth units,” Stella placated. “But she comes highly recommended.”

They both perked even higher. “She?” Tony said. “Who is this chick?”

“This _agent_,” Stella stressed, “is–”, but then the door swung open again, and behind it was a woman with a long, dark braid and full body armor, looking equal parts appraising and suspicious.

She looked around quickly, dismissing Tony and raising an eyebrow in professional if subdued greeting to Natasha, before she finally made eye contact with Stella, who nodded. Then the agent strode into the room, completely at ease, and settled on the far side of the table. She left her gloves on, and her face passive, clearly in no rush to introduce herself.

“Team, this is Agent Barnes. Russian Intelligence expert, stealth operative and expert Marksman. Agent, this is Agent Romanov, a Black Widow. Subterfuge and explosives. And Tony Stark. Robotics, a. k. a. Iron Man.”

Stella explained the mission without pause – the target information, the encryption protocols to disable and, of course, the risk. They’d move in and out while all core staff were at a meeting in Nizhny, leaving only the auxiliary guards in place. The ultimate objective was to get in and out undetected – any suspicion SHIELD, specifically, had been there would warrant retaliation they would prefer not to deal with. Stella was only stopped when she mentioned that Barnes would be leading the infiltration of a small compound in rural Mordovia.

“Her?” Tony asked, already making a face. “No offense Barnes,” – Barnes looked like she might take offense anyway – “but why let a stranger take Point in such dangerous terrain?”

“When we say rough terrain, it’s not just the land.” Barnes spoke calmly, clearly used to running a room and expecting to be heeded. “The wolves aren’t just wild, they’re rabid. The cliffs not just steep, but shifting. Think of it as a landlocked Alcatraz – any one lucky enough to escape doesn’t have enough luck left to survive the trip. The locals think the land is cursed.”

“And is it?” Stella asked. She’d long since stopped pretending that magic was an impossibility, and that science wasn’t basically the next best thing.

Barnes considered her for just a moment, then shrugged. “Close enough to it. I don’t need to tell you that where Hydra goes, reality warps. Whatever exists in those mountains now, Hydra made them what they are. Even the Hydra agents themselves won’t leave the compound at night.”

“Okay,” Natasha said, leaning her elbow on the table. “Hydra made something so twisted they can’t control it. So how will we know how to get past it?”

Barnes grinned, tight-lipped and unsettling. She glanced at Stella just briefly, then back at Natasha. “Because I’ve tangled with their creatures before.”

Stella’s eyebrows flew up before she could control them. That hadn’t been in Barnes’ file.

“And,” Barnes added, waving an open palm across the table, “because your illustrious Captain here says you guys can do anything.” She grinned at Stella then, a cockier, but more human version of herself, and Stella was unsure whether she was being made fun of.

“Within reason,” she said pointedly, meeting Barnes’ gaze head on. “Assuming your intel is solid, and your reputation isn’t held together with bravado and spit.”

“Oh, believe me. I wish half the things in my file were dirty, dirty lies.”

Barnes stood then, quickly, to reach the stack of folders in the center of the table and pull one towards her. She flipped it open and spun the packet around, so the map it contained was upright for everyone else. “No, I know these woods a lot better than I’d ever want to. And there’s only one way we stand a chance of getting in.”

And so went the next ninety minutes, with efficient descriptions of access roads and choke points, highlighting the best opportunities for tactical advantage and numerous escape routes in case they had to pull out at various points. As she spoke, though, she continuously flicked her gaze up to Stella, and then back to the others.

Stella watched, silently, trying to fit this behavior in with her otherwise cocksure but almost flippant demeanor. Her gestures were oversized but deliberate, and her voice was direct and uncompromising. Only her eyes betrayed her, and Stella tried to fit what she knew of Barnes’ reputation with the woman in front of her. It took her several minutes to notice how intently she’d been cataloguing Barnes’ actions, and thought to wonder what Barnes’ impression was of her. Most of the country and half of SHIELD were in awe of Captain America, to the point of being awkwardly deferential. And the others who looked at her sidelong, like Barnes was, typically took her size and heft as proof that she was a hulking science experiment gone overboard. Neither option seemed right though, because Barnes certainly wasn’t intimidated, but also didn’t seem to be issuing the kind of chest-beating challenge for dominance that Stella had grown used to, and so tired of.

It was possible, she thought, that instead of being judged as a fighter, she was merely being judged as a fellow woman. That here Barnes sat as a brutal, accomplished fighter in her own right, but she had maintained her femininity throughout it all. She’d cede Barnes the right to think it. Where Stella was broad shouldered and overly-muscled, Barnes was muscled, but lithe. Where Stella had recently shorn her own hair off to a cropped military cut, Barnes’ dark hair was long, in a neat braid that slid along her neck and in front of one shoulder gracefully. Stella had an odd moment to wonder how hard it was to take care of that much hair in the field, and then had to suppress the sudden urge to look away. She blinked, rapidly, re-centering her thoughts on the mission at hand.

Barnes paused, and Stella realized that all eyes were on her.

“Captain, did you have something to add?”

Stella waved the question away, motioning with a hand for Barnes to continue. She did, almost seamlessly, but not without one last, confusing glance into Stella’s eyes. 

They adjourned an hour later, with the plan to meet again the next morning to discuss weapons and transportation leaving that Friday. Stella had managed to take back control of the meeting, handing out directives for assessments to be made before the next meeting – homework, essentially, which Tony loved to berate loudly, but it always yielded better results than asking him to make promises on the fly.

“Remember, guys,” she added, as they packed up their papers, “Barnes and I are taking point for the woods and the compound, so anything you think we should know, tell us sooner than later.”

Nat nodded, while Tony grumbled about ‘yet another woman’ who got to tell him what to do. Stella suppressed a sigh and waved him out – it was a familiar refrain that required no input – but Barnes straightened up, unnaturally still.

“That’s the kind of thinking that’s going to get us killed.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a twist. I’ll follow order like a good little soldier.”

Barnes leaned forward, hands unflinching at her sides, but her face was drawn tight and angry. “Taking orders is the least of it. I refuse to walk into those mountains with someone who’s caught up in this Us versus Them bullshit. If you’re busy thinking of me as an outsider, or a woman, you are taking time away from actively keeping all our asses alive, and that may be time we don’t have.”

Tony blinked, a little gobsmacked and definitely offended. “Look, new kid on the block, you wanna call me sexist? A womanizer? The tabloids do it all the time. Doesn’t make it true. But you wanna suggest that I don’t put every inch of my life on the line for these people? That’s bullshit, and they can back me up on that.” He gestured expansively at the room –presumably meaning Stella and Nat. “Cap? You gonna let her talk to me like that?”

Stella considered it for only half a moment. “Yes, actually. I am.”

Tony reeled, stepping back like he’d been slapped and making affronted noises, but between them Stella saw Natasha’s lip curl up into small smirk, and decided she’d made the right call.

She did, however, need to keep the peace if they were going to make it through Mordovia. “I know you have our back, Tony. But Barnes hasn’t had the pleasure of learning that yet, and a good reputation takes a lot of upkeep.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Stella raised a hand. “Go walk it off, and think it over. We need you both, so make sure you’re still on board with this mission, and that you’re willing to take orders from Barnes this time around. We can discuss it more tomorrow.” She glanced around to each of them, and added, “Dismissed.”

Tony was clearly frustrated but – luckily – decided to heed her advice, especially with Natasha herding him out the door. Trailing behind him, the drone powered up and into the air, flashing a face with a flat mouth and a big sideways ‘V’ over its eyes.

Stella turned to collect her folder as everyone left, ruminating. She had heard that feminism had come a long way in the last seventy years – had become a real movement, even – but no matter the year, it took moxie to come out and say a thing like that. It made Barnes no less confusing, but—

“Captain?”

Stella’s head snapped up, caught off guard to realize she wasn’t alone. Barnes had lingered, and Stella hoped she hadn’t let her earlier thoughts read too plainly on her face, no matter how complimentary they might have been.

“Do you have a moment?”

“Sure.” Stella wondered if she was going to apologize, or ask to be reassigned off the team. She hoped it was neither.

“Thanks. For backing me.”

“It was the right thing to do,” she said simply. “Tony’s not used to people talking to him like that. It’s good for him to be reminded that they can. But—” she cut off whatever Barnes was going to respond with, “he is right – I am willing to support him. And he is an integral part of this plan and this team, so I hope that you two will still be able to work together.” It was looking like a gamble to say the least.

“Yes ma’am.” Barnes nodded, standing at attention.

“Good.” Stella nodded, returning to tucking various maps and personnel files into a thick docket, but she noticed that the agent didn’t make any move towards the door. She looked up, then, to find her watching Stella carefully. “Was there something else I can help you with?”

“I—uh, I hope so.” She flashed her teeth, momentarily looking less assured that the agent who had all but run her mission briefing for her. 

Stella let her papers drop, and turned to relax one hip against the edge of the conference table. Barnes tracked her movements blatantly, and seemed to take it as an invitation to step in close enough to whisper. The door behind her was closed, affording them full privacy, but based on Barnes’ searching gaze, whatever she needed to bring up was sensitive in nature. Barnes shifted, still silent, and Stella remembered that her sheer size could be intimidating, particularly to other women. She wouldn’t have guessed it of this woman, but Barnes wouldn’t be the first agent to barrel through a meeting full-tilt only to doubt herself afterwards. She did her best to put Barnes at ease, leaning down enough for a hushed conversation.

“It’s alright,” she encouraged. “It’s just us here.”

Barnes’ eyes snapped to hers, alert and finally decisive. Finally, Barnes opened her mouth—

— and sealed her lips over Stella’s.

She startled into stillness, one thought after another battling for the forefront of her attention until her mind felt unhelpfully blank. Her fingertips pushed into the waxed tabletop beside her, seeking steady ground. But as Barnes’ lips moved they punched a sense-memory into Stella, faded and ancient, of a hushed giggle and a soft body pressed so gently against hers in a sleeper car of a cross-country train.

Everything about Barnes looked harsh, all black edges and knives, but her mouth was plush in a way Stella had forgotten could exist. For one unmoving moment, she let herself sink into it.

But as with many things, a trickle often precedes a flood, and Stella was swept up with thoughts of fumbling, uninvited boys at dance halls and delicate, curious girls behind stage curtains, and falling asleep in that sleeper car only to wake to blinding lights and shame. Lord, the shame, creeping hot behind her ears and roaring through her senses.

Stella wrenched herself back, palms shoving at Barnes’ shoulders and tripping over the chair behind her simultaneously. She fought to get free of the tangle of chair legs, stumbling like a dumb calf, but tore her gaze up to Barnes’ even before she’d righted herself, finding her looking as shocked as Stella herself felt.

“I—,” she started.

“What are you _doing_?” Stella demanded. “Why would you do that?”

“I— You said—"

“I did _not_ tell you do that.”

“You didn’t tell me not to,” Barnes countered, with a small, satisfied smirk. “And I mean, you’re incredibly handsome, you have to know that.”

Stella ground her teeth against the thought. “Women aren’t handsome.”

“You are.” Barnes shrugged, eyes wide and unrepentant.

“Are you wearing a wire? Is that it?”

And Barnes’ face changed, quickly, to anger. “No, Jesus—”

But Stella was intensely, urgently suspicious, beyond taking her at her word. She snapped out a hand to grab at the zipper of Barnes’ tac vest, tugging it down, intent on getting to the answer herself.

“Hey!” Barnes yelled sharply, gloved hand shooting up to grip her arm hard. So hard, in fact, that her wrist bones ground together painfully, and she felt the blood pressure drop in her fingers. She pulled back on impulse, shaking her hand out, but the shock was enough to snap her out of it. Barnes shouldn’t have been able to stop her like that, not without some enhancements, and Stella –

Stella should not have been _undressing_ another agent against her will. Oh Lord.

She threw her hands in the air, backtracking away from Barnes by a good ten feet, at least half the length of the room. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to—” She was, somehow, panting, overwhelmed and angry with herself, but now Barnes looked almost as wild as she felt.

“What the fuck?” Barnes spat.

“I’m sorry,” Stella said again. “You just – you can’t just do that.”

“And you don’t get to manhandle people just ‘cause you’re Captain fucking America.” She huffed, and grabbed her braid to fling it behind her shoulder. “Look – I’m backing off, alright? I thought we were on the same page, but apparently not.”

“Clearly not,” Stella insisted. “What on earth possessed you to approach a senior officer—”

“Are you seriously pulling rank? What are you gonna do, write me up?”

Stella grit her teeth in anger, looking away, and tried to slow her beating heart. The deep breath she took, and then the next, did not help. “No, it’s just. You can’t just assume.”

Barnes looked mutinous, and Stella took a fraught moment to reorganize her thoughts.

“I’m sorry that you got the wrong impression, but you can’t just assume another woman would be interested in that.”

“Not just any woman,” Barnes muttered.

Stella urged herself to let it go, closed her eyes for strength, but she had to know. She couldn’t risk falling into this kind of situation again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Barnes raised one unimpressed eyebrow. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“That’s not fair. They _put_ me in this body.”

“Right, and the ultra butch crew cut just screams no homo.”

“It’s practical,” Stella ground out. “This a common haircut for military women these days.”

“Because the _military_ is full of lesbians.”

Stella whipped her gaze away, bracing against that word.

“Look,” Barnes went on, “Women like us—”

Stella shot up an outstretched palm to stop her. She didn’t want to admit that after all these years passed, her body was still fighting her. Not in the same it had before the serum but still betraying her nonetheless. She gave herself a moment to shelve that hopeless thought for later, and then forced herself to look Barnes right in the eye. When she was finally able to speak, she was calm, even as the sound of her pulse drowned out her own voice.

“My duty is to this country,” she explained. “And times may have changed, but I’m not foolish enough to think anyone would let a deviant keep the shield. And I’m not – a deviant. But this shield is all I have left, and I would prefer not to risk any misunderstandings. I did not invite your attentions. Plain and simple.”

As she spoke, Barnes’ expression, which had been set firmly in ire and skepticism, slowly slid off her face. It was replaced by something passive, or maybe guarded, but her mouth fell open on a small “oh.”

“I understand,” Barnes finally said, chin high and rigid.

“You do?”

“Yes. I clearly misjudged… the situation,” she said. “I apologize for bothering you with this.” Her voice was oddly formal, almost mechanical or scripted. Even her posture was suddenly at military attention, but she continued. “I won’t plan to mention this to anyone, and I hope you’ll still allow me the privilege of assisting your team.” She made eye contact. “Professionally.”

“Of course,” Stella responded slowly. She was stunned by the turnabout, and the deference. She couldn’t tell what angle Barnes was playing. But she was also in no position to look a gift horse in the mouth. If Barnes was lying, she’d hear about it soon enough. The only thing for it now was to play along with the charade, and keep Barnes in her place. “I’m sure the team will benefit from your skills. Professionally.”

“Thank you,” Barnes said quickly. “I’ll be going.”

“Of course,” she repeated. And then, as if she had any control over the situation, “Dismissed.”

Barnes moved deliberately, almost as if in the same fugue state that was making it impossible for Stella to think clearly. But when the door snicked shut behind her, Stella braced her fists against the table and let her head slump forward.

This woman was a strange entity, assured and insistent, unafraid to stand up to Tony and bold enough to approach a senior officer. But then capitulating so quickly. So damn angry, but then apologetic. People could say what they wanted about this new century, but most people – human nature – hadn’t changed. This woman, on the other hand, was a new breed entirely. A weapon personified, but she had kissed Stella as gently as her first time, when it was nothing but sweet exploration.

Several minutes passed like that, with Stella holding herself upright with only her fists on the table, and trying to make sense of the morning. When she finally had to admit she was thinking herself in dizzy circles, she didn’t bother raising her head but said, aloud, “Jarvis. Delete all A/V recordings since the meeting ended.”

“Of course, Captain Rogers.”


	4. CHAPTER 4

The silver lining, if she could call it that, was that Barnes kept true to her word. The day rolled by with Natasha thinking nothing of Stella passing on a sparring session, her PR agent chatted away like always, and then next day’s strategic planning meeting was impressively to-the-point. That Barnes avoided eye contact was a mere technicality of an otherwise professional demeanor. It didn’t stop Stella from replaying their fraught meeting over in her mind, her own voice wheedling, “That’s not fair.” She tried to close her mind from how weak she sounded, and how Barnes must have thought of her – childish and ineffective. Whining like she used to when the older boys pushed down for no reason, and it was still her who had to wash the mud from her skirts. After their second meeting, Stella spent three days waiting for one of the grey, enveloped inter-office memos alerting her that Barnes had backed out of the mission, but it never came. Jarvis had notably stuck to lighter learning topics – the advent of the hula hoop and Kevlar technology, but didn’t otherwise ask about her mood. And when Friday morning found her all suited up and on the air strip with no fresh rumors circulating, Stella took Barnes’ silence at face value.

The trip to the base was grueling, as advertised. Every quarter mile of terrain required new surveillance and constant vigilance. The forest canopy was dense enough that Tony couldn’t fly without needing to arc over the tree cover, which would just broadcast their position, so he was unhappily trudging alongside them all. Truth be told, not one of them was in particularly high spirits. Even Stella felt the nip of the frigid air a little too sharply; the previous night had proven too cold to even consider a change of clothes, so they’d been sleeping, hiking and sweating in the same undergarments for over 36 hours. Needing to relieve herself was, suddenly, a new kind of torture Stella didn’t remember from her own war.

She couldn’t be sorry though – about the mission, or the team. Barnes was an informed, effective trail lead, Stark had plenty of crafty ways to sustain a small fire, and Natasha was able to fill their bellies beyond cold, tinned rations by catching a few sables – a weasel-type snow animal that Stella only knew of in the context of women’s coats.

“A pity we’ll have to ditch the furs,” Natasha said, on the second night, sucking some sinew from between her teeth.

“That’s what you think,” Barnes answered, flipping open a large butterfly knife Stella hadn’t spotted a moment before.

By the time the light was low, Barnes had scraped the hides of all lingering muscle and blood, leaving only a long rectangular swatch covered in thick, dark fur. She grimaced as she pulled open the throat of her outer jacket, but once she began tucking the hide against her neck – fur side in – her eyes went closed and wide, like a pleased cat.

Natasha eyes tracked the process avidly, and only when Barnes zipped her jacket up around the fur did Natasha say, “Ooh, me next?”

She didn’t open her eyes, but Barnes hummed with a smile. “Sure thing. You catch us enough of those and we might actually feel our toes again.”

It was oddly peaceful – domestic, even – for a mission of international espionage – and Stella even found herself humming as she tended the fire.

____

The following morning Stella lurched out of her small tent, grateful to see that Tony had rekindled the fire before slipping off to relieve himself. She approached Natasha and Barnes, both sitting casually around the young flames of an early morning firepit, and chuckling to themselves.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Nat said. “We were just discussing the merits of sports bras in the field.”

“Oh?” She settled onto a low log, opposite them.

“Don’t get me wrong, they’re better than the alternative. But a girl likes to breathe once in a while.”

Stella smiled. If there was one thing her USO tour had taught her, it was that girls lived and died by their brassieres. “So, what’s wrong with the current models?”

Barnes answered, eyes focused on where she was picking at a thumbnail. “Just having to wear so many of them.”

“What?” Stella looked between her and Nat. “How many do you have to wear?”

“At least two,” Natasha said with an easy shrug. “Three if I need to be combat ready in civilian clothing.” Then she looked to Barnes, waiting for her input, and Stella could tell they were only repeating this part of the conversation for her benefit.

“Also two. With a tac vest I can get away with just one.” Barnes said, though her gaze was reluctant to settle on Stella. “But some days I think I could wear five and still sweat through them all.”

“Amen to that,” Natasha muttered, and they both laughed. “What about you, Stel?”

“Oh. Um. I don’t—” She tried to find the right words, readjusting herself on the log to get comfortable again. A pebble bounced square off her shoulder, and Stella blinked up across the fire.

“Don’t go all modest at a little girl talk,” Nat said. “Did the women not double up in the forties?”

“Not really,” Stella admitted. “Peggy’s were always—” She caught herself, blinking rapidly at the hard-packed snow on the ground. “We were really the only two women serving, most of the time. And combat brassieres back then were more of a,” she waved one hand over her whole torso, “full-body effort, if you know what I mean.” She chanced a glance up at their faces – Barnes’ especially – but they were both smiling.

“I do _not_ envy them that,” Barnes groaned.

“Tell me about it. Do you know – I’ve actually wondered whether the guy who invented spandex had won a Nobel Prize while I’d been gone? That man is an unsung hero.”

“How do we know it’s a man?” Barnes asked, suppressing a little smirk, but finally looking in her direction.

“Well,” Stella conceded, “I do. ‘Cause I looked him up.” She smiled back. “But I like where your head is at.”

“Smartypants,” Barnes muttered, just as Natasha said, “Nerd,” and chucked another pebble. The three of them smiled at each other, all in on whatever kind of joke this was, and Stella took a moment to be grateful that something – anything – could be this easy.

When Tony pushed his way back into the camp, he raised his open palms to the fire. “Alright, you patriotic otter pops, how long ‘til we see some action?”

____

In the end, it took another day and a half to spot the compound and finalize their infiltration strategy, but roughly only three hours to achieve the objective once they’d reached the compound. Which was good, since they needed to conserve energy and weaponry for the climb out of the valley – their most vulnerable point. It had been a sore point that the whole raid in and out of the basin had to be performed during daylight hours – when it was just ‘regular dangerous’, as Barnes called it, instead of ‘Alcatraz dangerous’. Once inside, though, it was startlingly easy to drop the guards – probably made complacent by the sheer isolation of the place – and with Tony’s help even the encryption wasn’t much of a challenge.

As Barnes was unplugging industrial equipment, Nat pulled her various data storage devices from the main computer.

“Find what we needed?” Stella asked, stepping up behind Nat.

“It’ll need further decryption, but all the diagrams focus on the power source for those glowing blue weapons.”

“Good. Those weapons are an advantage I don’t intend to let them keep.”

“Alright, Avengers and Co.,” Tony called from behind another bank of monitors. “Let’s assemble, ándale and skedaddle, ‘cause this place gives me the creeps.”

Those creeps were held to a minimum until Stella shoved open the compound’s outer doors to find the night sky pitch black.

“Shit. How long did we take in there?” she asked the team behind her.

“Well within parameters,” Natasha answered. “It shouldn’t be this dark.”

“She’s right,” Tony said. “Even for Russian winters, this is too dark too fast. My clock says 3 o’clock.”

Stella gave a shove with her shoulder to close the compound door again, and turned to face them. “Any chance your clock stalled?”

“My _clock_ is a fully integrated natural-language artificial intelligence interface.” He paused. “She says to tell you that only _computers_ stall.”

“Fine. Then what—”

“This is Hydra,” Barnes said, clearly frustrated but also resigned. “Hydra’s reality bends.”

“They can control the rotation of the earth?” Tony asked.

“Probably not. But they did this, whatever it is.”

“So, do we just wait out the night in here?” That was Nat, ever practical.

But— “No. The brass and their full security escort will be back in the morning, and we need to be long gone before that. Barnes – if we leave now, what are we dealing with?”

“Unstable terrain, for certain. And unknown combatants.”

“Animal, mineral, or vegetable?” Tony joked, but Barnes only responded:

“Yes. I suggest we rope ourselves together, in case someone falls.”

“Okay,” Stella agreed. “Tony, you take the rear, as long as that suit still has power to fly.”

“Still powered up, Cap.”

Stella nodded. “And I’ll take the lead.”

Barnes made a noise – akin to clearing her throat but impressively more subtle. “With all due respect, I think I should take lead. I’m the most familiar with this terrain, followed by the Widow.”

Stella considered her, first skeptically and then pragmatically, but ultimately decided to allow it. She and Nat did, indeed, know more than her or Tony about how to get them out of there. “Anything else we need?”

“We need to not be in this basin in the dark,” Barnes muttered.

“Night goggles,” Natasha added then, with a grimace. They’d brought some, of course, but they were hidden away in their packs, buried under snow on the lip of the basin for when they got back out. She turned to Barnes. “Any ideas where to look for them?”

Barnes nodded, grimly, and motioned for Natasha to follow. “If we’re not back in 30, leave without us.”

Which Stella had absolutely no intention of doing, but let them go anyway. While they waited, she and Tony discussed the possibility of him flying them out of there, but ultimately decided that would drain his suit entirely, and they couldn’t risk having it get stuck behind.

An hour or so later, when they were all collected together again with their new goggles and linked up with healthy lengths of rope between them, Stella gave the order. “Once we close this door behind us, we move. Quickly, and straight up the cliff, on the same path we took down. Ready?”

They all nodded and, once again, Stella gave her shoulder the old heave-ho against the reinforced door.

They made it across the open plain of the valley easily enough, which Stella had honestly been worried about, but the trek upwards was much harder than she’d been expecting. The earth was much less packed than she remembered, and their feet backslid with every step. Progress was only slowed further when Barnes hissed and called for everyone to watch out for the purple flowers. Which made no sense in the frozen Soviet wasteland they were trying to cross, or that anyone could see colors through the hazy night goggles, but she was more cautious of the organically-shaped shadows dipping in their path from the trees.

The faint glimmer of stars through the trees was just starting to offer hope of escape when Stella felt a tug on the rope behind her. She turned, a question on her tongue, just as she heard the sounds of Tony’s metal suit meeting hard flesh.

“Tony?”

Before he could answer, a low growl sounded from where Tony should have been standing, and Stella saw two luminescent blue eyes tracking them. Tony, instead, was halfway off the path into the trees, stretching their rope taught, and swinging one suited arm towards the thing with the eyes.

“It’s got my arm in its teeth!” Tony yelled.

Immediately, a gun shot rang out, followed by a whimper, and the sound of metal pinging off metal. Tony grunted, and Stella called out, “Tony! Are you hit?”

“No! No, I got free. It hit the wolf.”

“Is it dead?” Natasha asked.

“Yeah,” Tony said, right as the blue eyes – scepter blue, _tesseract _blue – opened again. “Nope. That’s a nope. Hit it again!”

Tony used the jet propulsion flames of his gauntlet to hold the thing’s – wolf’s? – head back, while Barnes raised her arm to take another shot. Strung out in a line like they were, she fired from mere inches away from Stella’s and Nat’s heads. Given her reputation, Stella trusted Barnes’ aim completely, but when the shot ricocheted with a metallic ‘ping’ out into the darkness again, Stella ordered, “No bullets! They’re just bouncing back.”

“They’re bouncing off the wolf,” Tony yelled.

Which meant the wolf was… metal? Stella flung her shield, trusting it to boomerang back to her even in the dark, and again the wolf went down.

“That might be temporary,” Barnes said. “Into the tree branches.”

“Is that safe?” Nat asked.

“No,” she grunted, “but the fastest way out of this mess is straight up. There might be more of them.”

Through the goggles, Stella could see that the wolf was beginning to stir again. “Okay, up we go.”

Only, after another fifty feet of pulling themselves up by their numb grips on low hanging branches, they were met with more eyes. Six pairs of eyes.

“Fuck,” Tony said, and both Natasha and Barnes echoed it in Russian.

They fought the only way they could – all out and messy, on slippery terrain – but Stella didn’t see another way out. When she turned to consider a temporary retreat, she saw another set of eyes – maybe even the originals – making their way up the path behind them. The ropes that bound them all now kept anyone from being dragged away, but made any other tactical maneuvers nearly impossible.

Nat and Barnes sank their knives into as many jugulars as possible, while Tony and Stella did their best to beat the wolves into unconsciousness. Not to death though – no matter what they did, no matter how much blood they spilled, the things always got back up.

“Are these things even alive?” Stella mused.

“Tony!” That was Nat’s voice, though Stella couldn’t spot her anymore. “Think you can fly us into the trees?”

“As you wish,” he called back. Stella could see the glint of his suit stepping away from the pack and crouching, presumably to blast off on a jump. Only as he did, he never stood back up. Instead, he disappeared from sight entirely.

A moment later, Stella felt the immense tug at her belt as Tony – and the ropes attached to them all – dragged them single file into the hole that had opened up beneath him. Stella did her best to grapple with the dirt, fingers digging for frozen roots she could hold onto to keep them out of the sinking ground, but there was nothing.

The fall was long, and ended when they all slammed into the ground – and each other – at the bottom of an earthen pit. Tony grunted under everyone’s weight, but it was Barnes, the last to hit, who cried out on impact.

Stella laid there, panting, regaining her bearings and her night vision. The hole above them was narrow, but at least seventy-five feet up, and Stella swore. As her eyes adjusted more fully, she was grateful to make out enough roots in the pit’s walls that they might be able to crawl out of there. Eventually. Then something flared in her peripheral vision, and she turned to see what it was.

“Wolf!”

Tony grunted again, and gave it a hard elbow to the temple, which temporally shut the lights of its eyes again. “Yeah. It broke my fall. Didn’t seem to break _it_ though.”

Groaning, Stella wormed her way out from under Barnes, only to hear her whimper when she did. Once she was able to prop her back up against the side of the pit, she asked, “Barnes, status?”

“Functional.” Then she grunted, obviously in pain. But if Barnes could give her attitude, that was probably a good sign.

“Nat?”

“Here, too. Tony’s suit here broke my fall, but I can’t decide if that was gentlemanly or a real dick move.”

The pile of people slowly grunted and groaned their way to sitting positions, uncovering the wolf. Once they did, Tony flared up enough of a light for them to take a look.

It was, indeed, a wolf, though a massive one. And covered in blood, which meant it was a living animal, and not some Soviet Metal Spirit. Probably. Stella, feeling decisive, dragged herself and her shield over to it, intent of separating its head from its body. If that didn’t kill it for good, she didn’t know what would.

It took three good blows, the shield clearly striking a near-indestructible alloy where there should have been bone, and all four of them muttered various “what the fuck”s under their breaths as she finished the job.

“Well,” Tony said, “we’d been wanting a cave to camp out in.”

Nat laughed mirthlessly, “Lucky us,” but Barnes was conspicuously quiet.

It turned out the edge of Stella’s shield had caught her arm wrong when she landed, though she was still able to move it. If Stella hadn’t looked up her classified file after she’d felt the strength of that arm, she’d have been shocked it hadn’t been severed entirely. As it was, they were lucky it was her metal arm that took the hit and not the right one.

Stella crawled back over to her. “You think we can stay here ‘til the morning?”

Barnes nodded tightly, cradling her arm stiffly against her side. “Sure. The Night Pack should be gone with the sunrise, and then it’ll be safe to climb out.” Which meant that Barnes assumed what she had – that whatever wolves were at the top of the hole clearly knew better than to jump down and would leave them alone.

“Here,” Stella offered, pulling a soft length of rope from her belt. “A makeshift sling, just for the night.

“Thanks. Might, uh,” Barnes glanced down, “might need an assist though.”

And so Stella crowded in to where Barnes was leaning, gently scooping her fingers and the rope around and under her arm to create a hammock-type sling. The arm was cool under her touch, the metal visibly exposed through rips in her jacket, but Barnes tensed in pain as if it had been her own flesh. And so even as Stella was forced to skim her fingers from exposed wrist to covered shoulder, she took care not to jostle it any more than necessary. As she worked, it was impossible to see Barnes’ eyes – what with her in her own goggles and Stella with the Night Vision – but Barnes did tip her head up towards her when she whispered, “Thanks.”

Stella nodded, and then pulled back to announce shifts for the night. It was barely 5 PM, by Tony’s talking robot clock, which meant a good twelve hours before there was any glimpse of the sun. She offered to take the first shift and decided to see how long she made it before waking anyone else up.

The other three were just settling in to sleep when a familiar growl sounded from the edge of the pit. Natasha, in one movement, reached over to whip the shield from Stella’s hands and slammed it down into the wolves severed neck. It hadn’t even fully re-animated yet, still laying where Stella had left it, but its eyes flickered out again with the shield re-severing its spinal cord.

“Leave it there,” she ordered.

“I’m gonna call him Prometheus. The murder dog,” Tony muttered. And then, as an afterthought, “_Bad_ Prometheus.”

Natasha settled back in, curled up against Barnes and Tony for warmth, and Stella said, “Get some sleep.”

Stella marked the passing hours by watching the unchanging black of the pit’s opening and the beheaded wolf. It was largely quiet – the terrain too cold for anything wild to be active – save for Barnes’s occasional grunt of pain or dream-muttering. Once, when her voice took on a decidedly higher pitch, and words that were very clearly not English, Stella risked grabbing her good shoulder to shake her awake. Barnes flew upright with a grunt and began assessing the situation, but when Stella murmured, “All friendlies,” she settled back down.

Come morning, Tony moved stiffly, Barnes’ hair was a mess, and everyone was hoping they’d reach the trees before anyone had to pee, but they were alive.

Barnes blinked up at the weak sun streaming in through the hole at the top, and whispered, “Let there be light.”

Stella turned to check in on Natasha, who’d had the last shift, and on the wolf. In its place was only her shield, gouged deep into the otherwise undisturbed earth. She thought, let there be light, indeed.

Getting out was a hassle, with Tony flying Barnes up and out, and Nat and Stella climbing there to conserve Tony’s suit power. The sun was bright against the snow, though, and blessedly wolf-free.

Unfortunately, in the light of day, it was easy to see that Barnes’ sleeve had come away, revealing small strips of interlocking metal where her arm was, though she kept her right hand clamped over her metal shoulder, as it to keep it steady. And Tony – he was a dear friend, he really was – was near-shouting, “You have an exoskeleton?”

“Tony, inside-enemy-territory voices, remember?”

“All this time,” he stage-whispered, “and I didn’t know she had an exoskeleton?”

Barnes answered, mutinously, “I don’t have an exoskeleton.”

“Leave her alone, Tony.”

“I’m just saying,” he went on, “I’ve been wasting time taking my suit off and on again, and she’s got a freaking exoskeleton.”

“I’m not a fucking lobster, Stark!”

“Hey!” Natasha called. “We’re still trying to get off this cliff unnoticed. How bout we reach the treeline before the catfight starts, alright?”

Which was agreed upon as a Good Plan, and so they did just that. In the daylight, the going was much easier, the purple flowers were far out of reach (though poisonous upon contact, Natasha had explained) and even the ground beneath them seemed more solid.

Once they finally got off the edge of the basin and under the tree cover, Barnes mustered up a clenched-teeth request from Tony for his any pliers he might have.

“Big pliers?” he asked? “Itty bitty pliers? You know, it’d be much easier if you just let me see the arm—”

Barnes suddenly had a knife in her hand and a gleam in her eye that told Tony she wasn’t in the mood. From behind her, Natasha said casually, “I don’t know, sounds like she just wants your tool kit.”

Once she had it, Barnes stalked off into the trees with a growled order not to follow her. When she returned, though, a good thirty minutes later, the lines of pain had been un-etched from her face, and she returned the tool kit in better spirits. She even thanked Tony, though she didn’t stick around for his response.

She returned Stella’s rope, too, unwound from its sling-formation and neatly tied in a loop. 

“Thanks,” Stella said, and tucked it into her recently-recovered pack.

“You weren’t surprised,” Barnes said quietly, once they’d fallen into step by each other.

“No,” Stella agreed, confirming that she’d looked up Barnes’ classified file. Born 1983, US Army until a ton of redacted intel that Stella assumed was her time in Russia. Not only had she read everything about the arm – complete with specs but conspicuously failing to mention its origin – but she’d learned that Barnes had once choked a man to death with her own braid. “Just glad you broke the arm that could be fixed with a screwdriver.”

Barnes snorted, but her chin tilted in Stella’s direction. “Yeah, well. It’s not like SHIELD knows what to do with it,” which was certainly news to Stella, “but this bad boy can take as much as it can dish out, so I do alright.”

“You picked it up over here, then?” Stella guessed.

Barnes looked around the Russian countryside, dully, and muttered, “Picked up most things over here.” Which struck Stella as odd, but it seemed neither of them had any more to say about that.

To fill the silence, Stella asked, “So, what’s it like being in the army these days? You know, for dames?”

Becky snorted. “We gotta get you some new slang.” Stella rolled her eyes, but didn’t take the bait, and after a moment, Becky continued, “Oh. Well, it’s better than when you were in it, I’m sure. There’s more of us now, so the men leave us alone, not so much hazing. We mostly all get along.” She twirled a hand in the air.

That surprised Stella. Back in her day, proper units were practically built on good-natured ribbing and escalating pranks. Still, she supposed, it could somehow be different for the women’s barracks. “How?”

“How what?”

“How did they crack down on the hazing?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. Just got stricter over time, I guess. You know, based on the stories I’ve heard.”

“Huh,” Stella said, mulling that over. She’d have to ask around to see if that was everyone’s experience with it. Even the army was a strange place, these days.

It was another two days’ hike out to where the jet could pick them up, but Natasha and Barnes assured them the Night Pack wouldn’t follow them out of Hydra’s basin, and the only dangers left were the normal risks of camping at sub-zero temperatures. On the second night, Barnes pulled out several more cleaned furs and handed them out around the fire.

“You know, I hear murderdog pelts sell for even more than these,” Tony said, but he meant it as a thank you, and Stella thought Barnes could tell as much.

Natasha snuggled into hers, shoving it under the back of her coat to lay across her shoulders. And Stella, being too broad to pull that off, did just as Barnes had and wrapped it around her neck. It made for an odd souvenir of an even odder mission – she was no fan of this ‘multiple realities’ warfare – but she thought she’d end up keeping it just the same.

When they got back to New York, everyone was allowed to disappear for twenty-four hours to take several hot showers, sleep like the dead, and get their civilian affairs back in order. Each member of the team stalked off the jet without a glance back, and the only reminder of where they’d been was that Stella found the rumble of her bike a little louder than usual on her drive home.

That night, Stella asked Jarvis about when sable coats had gone out of fashion, and instead learned about PETA.

The next day, after the briefing, Barnes surprised her by asking to have a word. Panic licked up the back of Stella’s neck at the request – too reminiscent of the first time they’d met – and gestured for them to talk in the hallway. Surely, Barnes wouldn’t try anything there.

But Barnes merely put her hand out to shake. “Captain, it’s been an honor.”

“Likewise,” Stella said. “You were a real asset out there.”

Barnes smile was more strained than genuine, but she said, “I hope that means you’ll consider me for future missions?”

“Absolutely.” And then Barnes’ smile was the real deal, and Stella found herself oddly relieved at that. Which meant that, above all else, it was time to go. “Take care, Agent.”

“You too, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note:  
While elastic did exist in the 1930s and '40s, it was mostly rubber-based, which has a finite shelf life. Spandex was invented in 1959 by the chemist Joseph Shiver at DuPont Chemical. He did not win a Nobel prize.
> 
> Also, for those of you wondering, yes, wearing multiple sports bras is thing many women do. For reasons.


	5. CHAPTER 5

As the various Avengers learned to work together, and Stella re-earned her Captain’s title in the field, it was the times in between missions that dragged on. The Tower, in all its opulence, was silent in a way no city should ever be. She could look out her tinted windows at the strings of red taillights, but couldn’t hear the honking of the taxis and splash of tires through dipping gutters. Food was easy to come by these days, and she found herself forgetting to savor the extra helpings, or the meat on her plate, and then feeling guilty when she remembered. Sometimes Natasha would insist they stretch together after sparring – that was how they had become friends, instead of merely colleagues – but Stella was never more than an item on a list of things that made up Natasha’s day.

Besides, stretching with Natasha was… distracting. Stella tried to ask questions about how she ended up with SHIELD, and tap into that secret set of rules that always existed among women in a male-heavy unit, but between Natasha’s tendency to answer questions with a question and lie about her past, it was a mostly fruitless exercise. The only thing that Stella really gleaned was that for a woman as beautiful as Natasha Romanov, she had to use that femininity as a weapon. Even at their private gym, Natasha wore skin-tight clothing that revealed more than it covered. The day Stella realized she knew Natasha’s waist-to-hip ratio, and the exact shape of her upper thighs as they reached her buttocks, she felt dirty. She hadn’t meant to know, but Natasha had decided to use the discomfort and distraction of her mostly-male colleagues to her advantage, and Stella fell victim by proximity alone. Stella used that knowledge as a tactical advantage when they fought – knowing exactly how far her arm could wrap around Natasha’s thigh enabled a number of secure holds – but most of their team lost to Natasha when they sparred because they were too respectful of her more intimate spaces.

And, as Stella learned, it was a common tactic, though not one Stella herself would ever want to use. Women running through Central Park had more material in their shoes than on their chests, and wore shorts so tight that they advertised, as her mama would have put it, ‘what only God and their husbands should know’. Natasha said it was empowering, that the freedom to run around with your bare skin showing and still demand to be left alone was a sign of how far women’s liberation had come, which Stella acknowledged was true. It still was a change from the layers of skirts and slips and stockings that she had grown up with, though, and she had to remind herself not to stare. Especially in public.

On the days Stella stayed home, Jarvis had introduced her to TV. It was loud and bright, and while it was meant to entertain, Stella felt more like an anthropologist studying a long-buried culture. She wrote down words she didn’t understand and wondered how certain customs had come about. It was as jarring as it was confusing, and when she found out the news anchor reporting on a photobomb was actually talking about a photo and nothing like a bomb, she dismissed it as frivolous and irrelevant. Or, if she was feeling particularly hard boiled, a complete waste of phenomenal camera technology.

She thought, as she sometimes did, of Peggy. It was an easy morning’s train ride to DC, and she even debated going, at least once a week, but she never did.

She had visited Peggy once, as soon as she’d heard she was alive – of course she had – but it had been a mistake. As soon as the nurse saw her in, Peggy’s aged shoulders had perked up in bed and her smile radiated joy. She’d called out, “Stella, darling!” and Stella had felt such a moment of intense relief that smiling back felt like flinging off a thousand-pound shroud. Only Peggy had continued, “You’ve cut your hair! Oh, the brass will be in fits – I can’t wait to see what Phillips has to say.”

And Stella knew, then, that hope was a fallacy. That she and her 1945 face didn’t belong here, in this time, perpetuating Peggy’s delusions and pretending that holding on to any part of her first life wasn’t, in fact, doing more harm than good. She felt herself crumpling; the way her legs felt like rubber and her chest felt stiff, immovable, unable to take in breath or sustain life.

Peggy must have read it in her face, too, because her mood shifted instantly, and she struggled to push her legs out of bed. “What’s happened? Are you alright?”

It was all Stella could do to keep her voice in, but the tight control of her mouth left her eyes free to water – pricks of tears welling up at the corners and wetting her lashes. She had to look away, even as Peggy continued to tug weakly at her sheets.

“Stella, come here. I can’t—oh, bollocks. Come over here.” And when she threw her arms open, invited Stella into her embrace, Stella fell into it like a waterfall rushing to a lake – immediate, inevitable, and then finally calm. Peggy enveloped her instantly, drawing her into the time capsule Peggy’s mind had created for them.

“Darling, what is it?”

“I— I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Oh,” Peggy exclaimed quietly. “What happened? Did you find yourself in a bind?”

Stella nodded against her shoulder. “A bad one.”

“But you’re here now,” Peggy assured her. And when Stella tried to settle her hunched body in the bedside chair without letting go, Peggy tsked. “Come up here, sweetheart, there’s no one to see.”

Stella felt more tears well up, unable to stop them. Peggy was no longer the woman she’d been, was seventy years removed from the closeness they’d shared, and Stella knew she should pull away. But for her own part, Stella had spent two months abandoned in this foreign future, desperate for the Peggy she had touched only weeks before the ice, and it made her too weak to turn away now. She didn’t think about whether Peggy had a family or modern-day lover – if she was stealing affection meant for them – she only knew she had been worthy of it once upon a time, and craved it again.

Stiffly, carefully, Stella shifted her weight on the bed, careful not to crush Peggy’s delicate limbs, and curled herself into her arms. Peggy held on like she knew how devoid Stella’s life was of touch, and sweetly carded her fingers through Stella’s short-shorn hair. Her long fingernails left tingling trails on her scalp, and Stella timed her breath to the slow pattern of her movements.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Peggy asked.

“It’s not important. I just wanted to see you.”

“Well, I’m here. And you’re alright. It must have been quite something. I haven’t seen you like this before.”

“It’s only…” Stella chose her word carefully. As tenuous as a stolen glimpse of the past was, she desperately wanted the advice of someone who could look out for the best interests of Stella Rogers, not just Cap. “I’m not sure how to do this.” When she didn’t elaborate, Peggy made a small noise of encouragement, hands still weaving soothing patterns in her hair. “I don’t think that Captain America and I are the same person, anymore.”

When Stella looked up, she knew that Peggy understood – that Peggy saw the burden that came with the shield, and the publicity, and the hopes of an entire country on her shoulders. And then Peggy leaned over and pressed her lips to Stella’s. She smelled and tasted different than she used to, but the love that used to overwhelm Stella was still there, and Stella kissed her back. It was a sweet remnant of the life Stella hadn’t been ready to give up.

And then Peggy said, tenderly, “You won’t have to live up to the ridiculous ideal of Captain America much longer. The Germans are nearly ready to surrender, and then we can both retire.” She smiled. “With military honors, to someplace no one can find us. You liked the sound of Lucerne, didn’t you?”

Stella couldn’t answer. She only pressed her face back into the crook of Peggy’s neck to hide her expression.

“Hush, darling,” Peggy whispered. “We’ll be free soon enough, and we’ll live how we want, I promise. You could even cut your hair like this again. I do admit, it is rather dashing.” And then Peggy – brilliant, beautiful, lost-in-time Peggy – held Stella in her arms while she wept.

Stella was awoken sometime later by a nurse, but if he was surprised to find Captain America curled up on Director Carter’s bed, he didn’t say. Instead, he only straightened the blankets over Peggy’s sleeping form, and whispered, “Take your time. She’ll be out for a while.”

“Oh,” Stella frowned, “I’d like to say goodbye, before I go.”

His pity was poorly disguised. “She probably won’t remember you were here. But if she does, I’ll tell her you’ll visit again?”

Stella said that she would, knowing even then that it was probably a lie, and excused herself. Halfway down the corridor, she found a wash room and ducked into it. Out in the hall, someone else puttered around for several minutes, until their footsteps finally clipped away. And then Stella put her face into her hands – this time silently, and alone.

It had been the next day when Stella bought electric clippers, committing to keeping her hair short. And the day after that, she finally asked Fury to put her to use.

When Stella thought of Peggy now, it was with a combination of loss and guilt that was enough to kick the fight out her. She’d often double her run just so she had an excuse to crawl back in bed afterwards, and stay there until she got too hungry or Jarvis insisted they had another lesson. At one point, Stella had found a recording of Peggy’s most official biography and tried to listen to it, but the impassive male voice recounting Stella’s own ‘professional engagement’ with Peggy’s career was enough for her to delete the file.

On Stella’s good days – because she did have good days – she didn’t think of Peggy, or how the world had changed. Instead, she brought her sketch pad to the park, or hummed through the apartment and tried to make her Ma’s old steamed molasses cake. Once she got it close enough, she did as her Ma would have told her and found some wax paper to wrap up a slice for Natasha, and two for Tony and Pepper. Sometimes, when Sam was in New York, he would swing by to challenge Stella to a game of one-on-one basketball (“hoops”, he said, which Stella always lost) or a new game called racquetball (which she won). It would never come close to the life she was building for herself in 1945, before the ice swallowed her up and refused to spit her out, but on her good days, it felt like a start.


	6. CHAPTER 6

The second time the Avengers were short on personnel, Sam was with them but Tony had made himself scarce and Clint was on family leave. So Stella requisitioned Agent Barnes, pending her availability. She hadn’t actually gotten to witness Barnes’ sniper skills, and she reasoned it would be good to field-test her with multiple team configurations for maximum flexibility in the future. Besides, she and Natasha had gotten along well. 

Unlike Tony, Sam knew how to make a good impression, and Barnes responded in kind, starting the whole operation off on the right foot. It was a domestic issue, so the flight was short, but they got stuck on the tarmac for at least two hours while SHIELD hemmed and hawed about whether they really wanted men on the ground.

When Stella made a crack about the old songs they used to pass the time with at base camp, Sam politely declined from asking, saying, “None of the songs I ever learned were fit for mixed company.”

Barnes’ eyes immediately found hers across the dim bay of the jet, alight but questioning, and Stella felt her lips twitch as she tried to suppress a smile.

Barnes grinned back, anticipatory, before launching into the foulest, most _detailed_ tune about bringing men back from the dead with a good fuck. Stella could make out the whites of Sam’s eyes for a complete ten minutes while Barnes sang, but he laughed and howled along at all the right places. It didn’t take long for them both to learn the chorus and chime in.

“Hoo, boy,” Sam hollered, once they’d finished the refrain. “Never heard that one in the army!” Stella didn’t know if Sam was more surprised by what Barnes had sung or that Stella had enjoyed it, but after that he loosened up enough to tell them about some of the absolutely wretched pranks his paratrooper unit used to pull. As the only woman in a combat unit in the 1940s, Stella had been spared from the worst of her unit’s indiscretions, but she did tell them about the truly obscene number of used condoms she found in her gear, sometimes days later. Sam just kept laughing – that’s nothing compared to what his unit used to pull – but Barnes shot her a look of such pure, disgusted commiseration that all those condoms almost seemed worth it.

Finally, SHIELD gave them the okay to de-plane, and they did what they’d come to do. Sam and Barnes made an especially good team, and Stella found that Barnes’ reputation as a sniper was completely deserved. The good comradery and easy op put Stella in such a good mood that she found herself humming as she wiped down her shield afterwards.

Barnes caught her eye, asking, “Another song you’d like to share with the class?” and Stella cut off. But Barnes’ braid, usually tightly wound in an ornate pattern down the back of her head, was wisping out around her face in a surprisingly casual way, and it made it somehow easier to talk to her.

“Oh, oh no. It’s just something my Ma used to sing.”

“And I’m guessing your mother didn’t sing about the things you can do to a man’s….” She gestured lewdly to between her own legs, and Stella laughed.

“Dear Lord, no.” Let those lyrics and her Ma never be in the same sentence again. “It’s just about an old Irish rebellion. Which they lost, but—”

“Uplifting,” Barnes commented, dryly.

Stella shrugged easily. “At least that one’s optimistic. Almost all our old songs are about wars or famine, so some of them just end up being, uh, happy songs about wars and famine.”

Barnes looked like she wanted to laugh at such a dumb statement, but she just asked, “And when was this rebellion?”

“1798,” Stella said immediately, before she remembered that that was even longer ago now, and that her perfect recall of history texts sometimes put people on edge. “Or, well, I don’t know. It just reminds me of home.”

That time Barnes did raise her eyebrows at such a dumb statement, studying her openly, but she didn’t push further. Stella tried to wave the awkwardness away, and went back to fiddling with her shield.

Only later, once they were back on friendly ground and Stella was walking across the tarmac towards SHIELD HQ, did Barnes catch up with her again. Her overnight bag was slung high over her right shoulder, much as Stella’s own was, and she’d clearly redone her braid. Stella wondered if she’d ever catch Barnes in the act of plaiting it, or if that kind of hair magic would just always belong to other women.

Barnes fell into step behind her easily, but when she asked, “Captain?” her voice belied an uncertainty that immediately put Stella on alert. A sidelined glance told her that her sniper wasn’t scanning her sightlines, suggesting that the threat was not tactical in nature.

“Barnes?”

“I don’t want to overstep—”

“We’ve already covered this, Agent.”

“Not that,” Barnes said quickly, barely audible over the white noise of the engines behind them. “Only…” Stella could tell Barnes was trying to catch her eye, looking up at her as she matched her pace, but Stella kept her focus on the hangar door. “Only, when I first came to New York, it took over a year to think of it as home. I probably never would have if someone hadn’t, you know, taken me in.”

Barnes’ gait shifted, and Stella finally looked over. Held out in her gloved hand was a slip of paper, folded neatly in half but with the edges torn and ragged, telegraphing her spur-of-the-moment decision. 

“It’s an olive branch, Captain. From one displaced soldier to another.”

Stella took the paper out of pure manners, and immediately wished she hadn’t. She knew what was on it, and she didn’t want it. In the next moment, she found herself searching Barnes’ face without ever actually deciding to look up. Barnes was a master at calm – unmatched by any except Natasha – but her eyes tracked Stella’s avidly.

“Just as friends,” Barnes assured her, and Stella believed her. It would be hard, later, for Stella to pinpoint why, but when Stella studied the tension around her eyes it didn’t seem nervous so much as… resigned. Like she knew Stella would decline, but forced herself to make the offer anyway.

As soon as the slip was safely in Stella’s possession, Barnes nodded and dismissed herself, pulling ahead and catching up with Sam, who greeted her with a friendly smack on the shoulder. Then he pivoted to walk backwards and called out, “Hey Rogers – pick up at the VA next week?”

She nodded, half-distracted, while her fingers worried at the paper, rubbing over the subtle texture as she put off opening it. The surprise of Barnes’ offer left her uneasy, though she couldn’t say why. Especially since Barnes had seemed so genuine…

She cut off that thought with a twist of her fingers, opening the folded paper. In innocuous block letters, just as she suspected, it read:

**212-325-5703**

And underneath that, in a more casual scrawl:

**Becky**

Stella tried to match the cocksure, aggressively competent agent she knew with a name like _Becky, _and failed. She had never met a Rebecca before, didn’t even know if Becky was how people typically shortened it, but it seemed too bubbly for the blatant intent that defined Agent Barnes’ every move. Not that it mattered, Stella frowned to herself. She could never befriend Barnes. Even if her pathetic stories of ancient folk songs lured in new acquaintances, Barnes could never be one of them. The threat of what she had wanted, at one point, was too great a risk.

With that settled, Stella swung through the offices of HQ to find a lock-box paper shredder with high enough security to discard of Barnes’ Personal Identifying Information. Then she took an elevator down to the subterranean parking lot to grab her bike, and planned to forget Barnes’ phone number.

Not that she could. Eidetic memory, and all.

____

The basketball game at the VA the next week was a good bout of exertion in an otherwise still week, so she agreed to go again two weeks later. That game turned out to be co-ed, and both were excellent distractions from the rest of her intermittently-interesting life. In the co-ed game, many of the women – Stella excluded – didn’t quite have the height the men did, which led to a lot of semi-questionable plays to compensate, and a _lot_ of shit-talking. Stella just poised for a perfectly decent jump shot when Sam called out, “Yo, Cap! Your phone’s ringing!”

“Nice try!” Stella answered, and went for it. It wasn’t – as Sam liked to say – nothin’ but net, but points were points.

Someone called for a water break when they were tied 40-40, and Stella took the liberty of dunking her head under the water fountain. Sam jogged up to her in his glaringly yellow team vest, and said, “Lookin’ pretty good out there. We’ll make a Knicks fan of you yet.”

“Please.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m just waiting ‘til we get enough people to play baseball instead.”

“Uh huh. And how many people does that take, again?”

“You’re hopeless. We could get by with fourteen – that’s only four more.” She bristled a hand through her overlong and now-soggy hair, purposefully letting the spray hit Sam in the face.

“Hey! You better watch out. Team captains have been known to get dunked by a water cooler or two.”

“You’re not fooling me,” Stella said easily, “I heard co-ed hazing doesn’t happen in the army.”

Sam wrinkled up his whole face, before saying, “Who in the hell fed you that bullshit?”

Before she could answer, a loud yell from across the court caught both their attentions. The whole yellow vest team and two of her own no-vest teammates had First Lieutenant McCarthy in the air and were trying to get her in one of the basketball nets. She was probably slim enough for it to work – but only if she stopped hollering and flailing. 

“I rest my case. I better go make sure she doesn’t get stuck.” Sam sounded almost regretful, and Stella bet he’d rather be helping. But as he jogged towards the three-point line, he called back, “Oh, and your phone really was ringing!”

Stella sighed, because she knew fully who had been calling. She hadn’t meant to ignore her PR agent, she just… was never in the mood to handle her energy or her ‘suggestions’. Still, though, they had publicity events coming up, and it was part of the job. She turned her back on what looked like a good time over by the net, and went to fish her phone out of her jacket.

Stella let Heather chastise her for being so hard to reach, and then agreed to come in that Thursday to discuss the following weeks’ photo shoot. In fact, Stella acquiesced quite quickly to just about everything she asked, but only so that she could go help get McCarthy out of the net.

That night, Stella was eating a distressingly dry dinner that she’d cooked herself when something occurred to her. “Jarvis, why don’t people like baseball anymore?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s unpopular, Captain. Only that television and the internet have given people to access to so many other sports to compete for their time and money. Some reports also say that the 162-game season feels overlong, and young people aren’t really known for their attention span.”

Which is how Stella learned about Millennials. And then the Gen X-ers and the Baby Boomers.

“Say,” she mused, “what was my generation called? My real generation?”

“Those who came of age in the 1930s and ‘40s are known as the GI Generation, but also the Greatest Generation.”

“The greatest? How’d we get that name?”

“The term was coined quite recently by a journalist referring to how the American GIs were the last who fought not for fame or glory, but because it was the right thing to do. The generation is defined as those who came of age during the Great Depression, and then went to fight in the World War Two.”

Stella slumped in her high-backed chair, glum. “Defined by, huh?” They sure were.

____

Heather was in high spirits the next time Stella saw her, so she tried not to let her sullen musings get in the way of that. Apparently, someone-or-other had agreed to take Stella’s picture, and Heather was over the moon about it.

“And also – get this. I don’t want to get your hopes up too soon, but I’m in talks to get you on the cover of People Magazine.”

Stella nodded. She was people. “And that’s a good one?”

“Oh, sweetheart, this is the number one-read magazine by women in America. We’re gonna get you to your people.”

_Her people_.

“Don’t make that face. I promise this is a good thing. We’ll vet all the interview questions ahead of time—”

“Together.”

“—Yes, together. And people will finally get to see the real you.” That put a stone in Stella’s gut, and she had trouble matching Heather’s enthusiasm. Apparently, it showed, because Heather reached out a hand to grasp hers. “Stella. This is what I do. This is gonna put your face on every coffee table in America, and people will get to hear everything you have to say.” She pulled back, still smiling gently. “This is how it’s done. I should know – I handled Peggy Carter’s retirement banquet. Did you know that? I did. And I told SHIELD they couldn’t give you to one of those stuffy PR suits who handle Director Fury and those guys. They’re big names, sure, but you’re a _celebrity_. I mean, have you seen your numbers lately?”

“Numbers?” Stella said, faintly.

“You’re approval ratings. Definitely in celebrity territory. I won’t lie – for a national icon, you could be doing better. And should be,” she added, as her eyebrows knit themselves down into a patient little wobble. “But we’ll get you there, you wait and see.”

Stella was grateful to Heather – she was. For knowing the media landscape, for guiding her through it. Apparently, her approval rating was in the 70s, which was a significant jump down from the wartime 92%. In truth, Stella hadn’t even known they’d tracked her approval back then, but supposed that was what Heather was for. All she’d known before was that she was fairly universally liked. It was easy, when your country was at war. Things boiled down to the simple truths – Nazis bad, US troops good. US soldier who punches Nazis, great. Even the men at home who were shaken up by the idea of a woman in combat could let it slide on account of ‘that serum they stuck her with’.

Today, though. Who knew what people wanted?

Oddly enough, it was Barnes who popped into her head first, but she resolved to ask a real source: Natasha.

In fact, a quick detour by the Avengers’ offices found Nat in one of the sound proof conference rooms with the door open, reading through files. Stella had missed their training-and-stretching routine that week in favor of the VA pick-up game, and was especially pleased to see her.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Come to grovel over skipping Tuesday?”

Stella tilted her head in concession. “No, but I am here to let you judge some personal life choices.”

“Oooh,” Natasha perked up, closing the folder in front of her. “My favorite. Love? Money? Hookers’n’blow?”

“Just my PR agent, unfortunately.”

“Pshh, boring. But you can join me anyway.” She kicked out the chair next to her for Stella to park her behind in, and she did just that.

Then she opened her mouth, and said, “Do you like People Magazine?”

Nat raised an eyebrow. “Do I have to have an opinion?”

So Stella backed up, and explained Heather’s strategy of getting her in touch with modern women, and how it now required the cover of People Magazine.

“Well,” Natasha said, cautiously, “you are a person.”

“That’s about as far as my thinking got too.”

“It is the least trashy of the trashy magazines.” Stella grimaced, and Nat dug her phone out of her trousers’ back pocket. “You know what, let’s see.” Then she began to do internet things on her phone, eyes glued to the screen, while Stella waited patiently. Finally, she said, “Okay, I see it. They cover a mix of celebrity gossip and serious news, but from the human-interest angle. And you said she’s trying to make you more approachable?”

“Mm-hmm. And relatable.”

“Well, I suppose this could do it. But, Stella, why?”

“Why what?” Nat’s eyes were intensely focused and intensely green. They made Stella want to fidget, and she flicked her bangs out of her eyes to keep her hands busy.

“Who cares what the public thinks?”

“I do. If I’m going to be a symbol of the people, I have to know the actual people.”

Nat shrugged. “Or you could just kick Hydra’s ass and call it a day. Or even ditch the monkey suit and have your own life.”

“Is that what you would do?”

“Oh, don’t turn this on me.” She cut a hand through the air, almost laughing. “I’ve never done a single interview, and the moment someone asks I’ll already be over international waters. The less America knows about me, the safer it is.”

Stella conceded the point, nodding. “Okay. Okay, but I opened that door in 1941. And I think I did a lot of good then – not just overseas.”

“Oh, I know. We’ve all heard your _No point to a woman in the kitchen _line. Your biography is basically women’s lib one-oh-one.”

“Well, I don’t know that term. But, I think I can do some good, so I should.”

“Ugh,” Nat scoffed. “You Americans and your martyr complexes.”

“You know, I think your generation invented that term. We just called it doing our job.”

“And in Mother Russia we called it sanctimonious bullshit, but who’s counting?”

Stella might have taken offense if Nat’s self-satisfied smirk wasn’t the telltale sign of her having a little fun. So instead, Stella kept perfect eye contact with her while her hand struck out to knock her files off the table, making the papers swoop out and flutter to the ground, out of order. Nat froze, eyes wide in disbelief. “You,” she said, “are the biggest little shit.”

“That was going to be my call sign,” Stella agreed, “but Captain America was shorter.”

Nat enjoyed a good round of banter, and let Stella have it for the next several minutes. Eventually, though, their talk turned to work, and Natasha’s plans for her next week off, and before Stella knew it her stomach was growling and she was making her goodbyes.

As she was leaving, Nat called after her.

“Stella?”

“Yeah?”

“This agent of yours. You don’t owe her anything.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“I’m just saying. So long as she’s useful.”

Stella nodded, point taken. But as long as Heather understood the internet and this Tweet thing better than Stella did, she was useful. “Yeah. Thanks, Nat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: There are so many songs about the Irish Rebellion of 1798, many of which are pretty and a few of which are even happy. The Rising of the Moon is a ballad written in the 1860s that "invokes the hope and optimism surrounding the outbreak of that Irish rebellion"


	7. CHAPTER 7

Stella and the day’s roster of Avengers were wiping off the sweat of a mission over and done with when Clint detoured towards the barely-used common room, complaining that he could eat a horse.

“Or more,” he added. “What’s bigger than a horse?”

“Your head,” Natasha offered, and they seemed to get a kick out of sneering at each other before sprawling themselves on the entire overstuffed leather couch.

Tony casually said, “Pizza?” which led to enough murmurs that it counted as a yes, and that was that. Pizza night with the Avengers.

Stella was willing to try it, and pulled out her phone. “I’ll see if Sam’s around.”

“That’s the whole gang,” Tony commented, already halfway into something complicated on his phone. Then he looked up at Stella. “Except Barnes, I guess. If you want to count her.”

“Nah,” said Clint, wiggling himself down between two cushions. “Pretty sure she doesn’t exist.”

“You’re just afraid to go head to head, in case she’s better than you.”

Clint scoffed, one hand swatting lazily in Natasha’s direction. “Psshh. I ain’t afraid of no girl.”

Stella raised one eyebrow – an empty threat – but she heard Natasha shift with a gesture that was probably not so empty.

Clint, predictably, flinched, and then slid away from where Natasha had also sprawled over as much couch as possible to move his limbs out of her range.

“Sounds like we should definitely call her,” Natasha said, and had to flop her neck back to get an eye on Stella. “Cap?”

“I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”

“I meant,” Natasha said slowly, “that you could probably call her, since you have access to the personnel contact info.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Stella winced, and then tried to shift it into a bland smile. With questionable success, if Natasha’s eyebrows were anything to go by.

212-325-…

Stella would have preferred not to, but her head was too busy deleting Barnes’ number to think of a decent excuse for why not. She turned away from Natasha – and maybe Tony’s – watchful eyes, under the guise of digging her phone out of a zippered pocket in her rucksack.

212-325-5703

The phone was, somehow, already ringing before Stella had even thought of what to say, and Barnes was far too prompt in answering.

“Go for Barnes.”

“Agent Barnes?”

“Yes ma'am? Captain?”

“Uh, yes. Hello. I was wondering if you were currently in the building?”

"Yes ma'am." She sounded instantly alert. "Do we have a situation?"

"Oh, no. At ease, Agent. We have, uh, pizza."

"Ma'am?"

Stella huffed, in spite of herself. "That's enough ma'ams, Agent. The team is back from off-site and Tony called for pizza. Would you like to join us?" At Barnes’ silence, she added, "Clint also wants to meet the competition."

"Clint, as in Hawkeye?" Barnes blurted, dropping the deference and sounding more like the Barnes she knew.

"The only one. Natasha suggested I call you. Should we count you in?" There was a long pause where Stella imagined Barnes taking in her meaning: that after three weeks of radio silence, Stella was calling her at someone else’s behest. That if left to her own devices, Stella would have continued to shun her offer. Stella, now, regretted mentioning Natasha at all.

Or maybe Barnes was just speechless over getting to meet the infamous Hawkeye. It was impossible to tell, especially when she deflected with her typical bravado.

"And here I thought Wilson might have missed my singing."

"Never," Stella said with a purposefully flat voice. "Your own mother wouldn't miss your singing, Barnes."

"Now you're just being mean," Barnes said, but she sounded amicable enough.

"Hardly. But I hope you’re ready to knock it out, because there’s talk of a shooting contest."

“Them’s fightin’ words, Captain. Am I being roped in for a fight to the death?”

“No,” Stella said, trying not to be so amused. “But between you and me, if you challenge him to an eating contest instead, you'll be in his good graces forever.”

“Even if I win?”

“Those're big words, Agent.”

“Well,” Barnes countered. “I have a big mouth.”

And Stella, for no reason whatsoever, turned her face away from the phone, definitely amused.

Barnes eventually said she’d join them, and then Stella actually called Sam, like she’d been intending.

Soon enough, the whole Avengers Inc. was stuffing their faces with some exceptionally flat, but otherwise good, pizza.

Barnes had actually taken her at her word, and pre-empted any skills debate with the challenge to eat a whole pizza the fastest. Clint immediately jumped for the sausage and pepper pizza, after which Barnes announced she was playing it smart and went straight for the four cheese. There were seven other options though – truly, an embarrassment of riches, which should be Tony’s middle name – so Stella took the classic (now called Margherita) and a mushroom, and hid them both under the table for herself so as not to steal the sharp shooters’ thunder. Above them, Tony’s drone showed an image of a circle with one eye and a wedge for a mouth zipping back and forth across its display, eating dots. Stella wondered if, like Jarvis, this flying marquee had a name.

Stella and Sam got caught up in what he liked to refer to as ‘shit talking’ about baseball until the whole table was interrupted by a simultaneous cheer and groan. One glance alerted them to Clint’s expression, which had seen better days, and the half slice of pizza still hanging from his mouth. Barnes showed absolutely no restraint about crowing at him, until Natasha pushed a whole other box of pizza down their way and said, “To the victor go the spoils.”

Barnes immediately matched Clint’s groan, and the two of them went to pamper their stomachs by laying out flat on the couch. 

Dinner was easy, all things considered. There was a lot of banter about where to get the best New York style pizza – which Stella won, but also ruined when she claimed she’d had the _original_ New York pizza – and people mostly left their personal hand-computer phones in their pockets. Except Tony, who was actively using his to maneuver his drone into carrying him pizza slices. He had six on his plate before Stella realized he had no intention of eating them.

“So,” Wilson eventually said, around a mouthful of Meat Lovers, “anyone got civilian plans for the weekend?”

Natasha said, “Nope,” with a resounding ‘p’, and Tony said yes, but that he still couldn’t tell them what they were. That left her and Wilson, doing their damnedest to have a polite conversation.

“I was thinking about checking out the Air and Space Museum,” Stella offered. And it was true enough, in that she had heard of it and thought she might drop by sometime because she still couldn’t believe they'd gotten to the moon, but not in the actual planning sense.

“Oh yeah?”

“That dinky place?” Tony threw out, and Wilson waggled his eyebrows at Stella.

“You should really check out the one in DC. Their Air and Space museum is out of this world.”

Natasha and Tony groaned simultaneously – Tony still without looking up – and Stella cottoned on to the joke.

“Nice one,” she said.

And Wilson’s face twitched. “Nah, that was _awful_. But don’t hold it against the museum. You really should just pop down to DC for the day. Their whole Natural History museum circuit is really worth it.

_Nope_, Stella thought, repeating Natasha’s sharp P in her mind, but she nodded at Wilson anyway.

“You know who would totally go to the local museum with you?” Natasha butted in, and waited until Stella’s eyes swiveled to her before she added, “Becky.”

Becky. 212-325-5703.

Stella opened her mouth to say something – anything – that would let Natasha’s watchful stare slide off her, but before she could figure out what that was, Barnes’ voice drifted over the couch.

“Am I being summoned?” she called, full of dread. Her battered stomach probably wasn’t ready to be upright.

“Not literally,” Natasha called back, overly loud. “I was just saying that if anyone wanted to check out a space museum, it’d be you.”

“Oh yeah!” And like a Marine hauling in a tug line, she got both hands on the back of the couch, single file, and reeled herself upright with a grunt. “We should go to the Intrepid Air and Space Museum. When are you going?”

“Not me,” Natasha said easily. “Stella needs someone to go with this weekend.”

“Oh.” Her face dropped, eyes snapping immediately to Stella’s. “That’s alright—”

Just as Stella explained, “That’s not what I was saying—”

“Could I tag along?” That was Clint, still in his prone position and unaware of all the awkward non-eye contact going on. “Laura wants to bring the kids into the city this weekend. They might get a kick out of it.”

“…Sure,” Stella said slowly. Her eyes drifted between Natasha, who looked quite pleased, and Barnes, who looked like there was a fire alarm blaring and she was the only one who could hear it. To her, Stella added, “Don’t feel obligated.”

“The hell she shouldn’t!” the voice behind the couch called. “We need Becky to answer the kids’ questions about why there were so many damn Apollos!”

Apparently, Barnes was on a first name basis with several people.

Barnes just shook her head, muttering, “I still can’t believe the US won the space race.”

Clint added, “You sure you won’t come, Nat?” but she insisted she was busy, and wished them a fun trip.

And so the plan was made to meet at the museum at 11 on Saturday morning.

Stella held her tongue until after Sam had left for ‘plans’ and Barnes had begged off with polite thank-yous and see-you-Saturdays. Then she caught Natasha’s eye across the dining table. They were both breaking down cardboard boxes for recycling, while Tony’s drone flashed three green arrows that chased each other in a circle.

“Pretty proud of yourself, there.”

Natasha shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

“I don’t need you planning my social calendar.”

She looked up then, falsely casual. “Didn’t need me to do much, seeing as you already had her number memorized.”

____

As it turned out, it was incredibly easy to lose a family of five in a museum – even on a boat. The Intrepid was a Navy aircraft carrier, but it and the docks around it had been converted to series of exhibits and old war planes and space crafts on display. The kids seemed to be enjoying it, based on the amount of screaming that was happening. But, to her point, the entire Barton family had stepped aside for a potty break, and then a bottle feed, and then Laura had just waved her and Becky on saying they’d catch up, and that was the last she’d seen of them for going on two hours. Stella had been planning to hide behind the Bartons all day – possibly both literally and figuratively, and was unprepared for an entire outing with just Barnes - _Becky_. 212-325-5703, Becky.

“Sorry you got pulled into this,” Stella offered, once the Bartons had vanished for good.

Barnes shrugged, tossing her head a little so that her braid swung around to hang down her back. “I do actually like this place.” Her eyes flicked up to Stella’s, but then away. “Sorry you got stuck with me. I know you’d prefer to, uh, keep your distance.”

“No,” she protested – though she had no idea why. Barnes was absolutely right. Stella dragged a nervous hand through her hair, then yanked it away. Her hair was stupidly shaggy now, and she had an unhealthy amount of pomade holding it back. Barnes, of course, watched the whole thing, and raised an eyebrow. “Okay, yes. I – I’m sorry, that I didn’t call.”

“Hey, man,” Barnes threw her hands up. “That’s your call. It was just an offer.” Then she turned away to read some diagram about the ocean’s floor, and pretended to be absorbed in it.

It frustrated her that Barnes wouldn’t look at her, or hear her apology. She was sorry – that she had made things so awkward, if nothing else – but when she thought of the easy way Barnes interacted with Natasha, or even Clint, it was clear which one of them was lacking.

“Look, I know I’m being a heel. But there are so many new rules on what to say, and what means what, and I just don’t want to misstep, here.”

Barnes snorted, without turning around. “Can’t have a misunderstanding.”

“It’s not so crazy,” Stella insisted.

And then, finally, Barnes did turn to her, chin tucked down. The harsh fluorescent lights, stupidly, only made Stella notice how very long her eyelashes were. She nodded to herself, having some internal conversation Stella couldn’t fathom, but then said, “It’s not. I know it’s not, which is why I gave you my damn number.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been where you are.” She crowded in close to Stella, keeping her voice low, but also earnest. “The social norms, the slang.” She rolled her eyes. “The complete freedom of the internet. It’s too much.”

“Was this in Russia?”

“No,” Barnes hissed, then pulled away, rubbing at her forehead. “Shit. Look. I mean, yes, but it was here too. After.” And it occurred to Stella that she really didn’t know anything about this agent, except that she put a lot of time into Russia and it gave her back a metal arm. But, she also realized, Barnes was trying to change that, to tell her about it. She had gone flush with her urgency – or maybe that was just the lights again.

“Okay,” Stella said.

“Okay?”

“I believe you.”

She huffed. “I don’t need you to believe me. I was there, I know it’s true. I’m just saying. This city is full of people rebuilding from scratch. So, let one of them help you.” Barnes spun away, hiding her face from Stella, but her shoulders twitched with every breath. She was clearly worked up over whatever was happening here.

Stella wanted to ask why – why she cared so much, and why about her? – but she had the feeling this was bigger than her. Instead, she watched Barnes’ rising back and said, “You seem really angry.”

“I’m not,” Barnes snapped. “I’m just trying to get through to you.”

“I never pegged you for taking on a charity case.”

“It’s not charity,” she sighed, slowly turning to face Stella again. It’s—” she seemed to search the surrounding exhibits for the answer, but found none, and shrugged. When she spoke again, her voice was controlled, falsely light. “Coming to America was hard. I could barely communicate, and I don’t think I could survive those years again if I wanted to. But if you’ll just listen to me, then maybe I wasn’t just some dumb Cossack girl throwing her life away for nothing.”

And Stella still didn’t understand – why she felt alienated in her own country, or why she struggled so much – but her confusion didn’t matter. Stella clearly hadn’t heard the story that went with Barnes’ redacted file, or her mechanical arm, but she knew she deserved to have this conversation somewhere other than a military museum meant for tourists. Stella had already noticed how some parents were steering their children away from the two huge women blocking the aisle, but she kept her focus on Barnes.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said, because that was what Wilson always did when she said anything remotely heavy to him. “I’m sorry that I didn’t get it.”

“Aw, God,” Barnes huffed, but her lips twisted in a self-conscious way. “Don’t apologize. Just quit acting like I’ve got cooties, alright?”

Stella pulled back, brows knotted. “The bugs?” And that made Barnes laugh, so while Stella silently added that to the list of things to ask Jarvis about, she also counted it as a win. Barnes seemed smaller, somehow, shoulders less rigid, and Stella gave into the urge to slouch alongside her. “Want to get some air?” she suggested, and Barnes nodded, shaking the loose hair out of her eyes.

“Yeah, this exhibit is dumb anyway.” She took two steps before stopping, and abruptly turning about-face. “Nevermind, we’re going to see the Enterprise.”

“Yes ma’am,” Stella said, jogging to follow her.

The Enterprise, it turned out, was the US’s first ever space shuttle, and Stella did think that was pretty neat. There was also a Russian capsule that had made it to the International Space Station, which Barnes knew a whole lot about, and Stella let her ramble away. She seemed content to drop their foray into more complicated territory, calm and confident as she focused on the simple things, and Stella was sure as hell going to let her. Stella felt like maybe they’d cleared the air, a little, though she wasn’t entirely sure how, or where they’d left things. What she did know, though, was that it was easier to talk to her after that. Stella poked fun at the size of the Russian capsule just to make her growl, and they both avoided the flight combat simulation in favor of lunch by unspoken agreement.

The Bartons found them eating truly mediocre hot dogs and competing to see who could throw their crumpled foil into the trash can ten feet away with only two fingers.

“Sorry we lost you,” Clint said, jostling a two-year-old on his hip. “This little sucker got a big kick out of the airplanes.”

“Nice,” Barnes said easily. “We mostly stuck to the NASA side. And then _someone _thought they could beat me in a hoops competition.”

“Someone _did_ beat you,” Stella said primly. “Only, Barnes here is a sore loser.”

“Aw, Jesus,” Barnes said, swiveling to look at her head on. “We explore the glory of space travel together, and we’re still not on a first name basis, Rogers?”

“Sorry – Becky here is a sore loser.”

“That’s better. But you’re still a filthy liar.”

“And, uh, please call me Stella.” She felt oddly self-conscious saying it, as if Clint would notice that she was far more strained saying it to Barnes – Becky – than when she’d said it to him, or Natasha, or Tony. She swept one hand up through her hair nervously, only to run into crusted pomade again. She sighed, shaking her fingers off.

“Time for a haircut, eh Cap?”

She grinned at Clint ruefully. “Yeah. Getting my picture taken for the PR team this week – got to look sharp.”

And there wasn’t much to say to that, so they all stood up, agreeing that the museum had been a nice idea and wishing each other a quick trip home. Stella wondered if Becky might say something personal before she left, some acknowledgement of what they’d discussed. But she just tucked her hands into her leather jacket – high up against her stomach, where the pockets were – and headed off towards her train stop. Stella was close enough to the Tower that she was just going to walk home.

Becky turned, though, before reaching the sidewalk. “Oh, Stella?”

“Yeah?”

“You might want to leave it long on top.” She waved one hand messily above her head. “To avoid misunderstandings.”

“Oh – okay.”

Then Becky waved, and was off. And Stella thought that, this time, she’d believe her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: Although we know cooties are completely made-up, in the early 20th century the idea of cooties originated from the word for lice or parasites in other languages, and was popularized through a 'Cootie Game' which perpetuated the idea of cooties as bugs.


	8. CHAPTER 8

Talking to Barnes, Becky, was easier after that, which came as no surprise. What was a surprise was that it was easier to talk to _everyone_. Most of the team was assembled at HQ for an intel update that Thursday, just making small talk while they waited for Fury, and Tony was giving Stella some good-natured ribbing about truth, justice, and the American way. She took it for a few minutes – enjoying watching his drone parade a string of red, white and blue stars as it flew around the table – but eventually had to roll her eyes.

“Tony, only one of us has even said those words this century, and it isn’t me.”

“Atta girl,” Becky said, smirking into her lunchtime coffee. And when Tony squawked, Wilson laughed. And when Wilson laughed, the _whole table_ laughed. Even, eventually, Tony himself. If Natasha had been there, Stella bet even she would have cracked a smile, and it dawned on her that she hadn’t noticed how damn formal their meetings had been until suddenly they weren’t.

That changed when Fury arrived, of course, but she was optimistic nonetheless.

They’d gotten about two thirds through the stack of surprisingly dull dossiers Fury had brought when there was a sharp knock on the door. There was a pause while everyone looked around at each other, as if to say, _Did you invite anyone else? I didn’t invite anyone else, _until Fury finally said, “Yes?”

And lo and behold, none other than Ms. Harrow pushed her way into the room. “I’m so sorry,” she said, when she clearly wasn’t, “but can I borrow Miss Rogers?”

“I don’t know,” Fury drawled in his flattest, slowest voice. “Can you?”

“I’m so sorry, Sir. Only, the PR campaign is launching soon, and we really need Miss Rogers’ headshots taken.”

“That’s not for two hours,” Stella blurted, but Heather's eyes just widened.

“Exactly, and we have hair, makeup _and _wardrobe. Do you think you can be excused?”

Stella recoiled at the thought of having to be excused, like a child in primary school, but her ears burned all the same. “I cannot. Avengers business takes priority—”

But Fury waved a hand through the air. “It’s fine. We’re almost done here, I’ll have Hill email you the rest."

Stella steeled herself for a moment, then stood, saying, “Yes, Sir,” and pressed her lips together in anger. She purposefully avoided looking at anyone on her way out, and waited until they were in the hallway with the door closed before planting her feet and looking straight down at Ms. Harrow.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d clear your scheduling needs with me ahead of time,” she said, which was about as neutral a thing as she could say to hide her anger.

“Oh, I know honey, I am sorry.” And she looked it, this time, for all that meant. “I forgot to schedule you for the pre-booking, and since you won’t keep an electronic calendar, I didn’t realize until you didn’t show up for the fashion team. Now – let me look at you.” She used their proximity to grab Stella by the shoulders and twist her this way and that. “Okay, less hair than I was hoping for, but we can work with it. What happened to all that beautiful hair you had last week?”

It was like Stella’s jaw locked of its own accord. “I like my hair like this.”

“Well, I like eating ice cream from the tub. Doesn’t mean I should. Now, you’re already twenty minutes late, so let’s hurry, okay?” Her big, brown eyes scanned Stella’s face, and when she nodded, Heather turned down the hallway, heels scuffing loudly along the carpeted floor.

Stella followed, dutifully, all the while reminding herself that she wanted this. She had gotten herself in trouble with the brass more than once during the war; mostly for answering the reporters honestly when they asked about women’s place in the war – at the General’s table – and what it was like being one of the only women behind enemy lines. They’d docked her three week’s wages when she referred to ‘the business of war’. And now, what with the new millennium and new American people and new expectations, she was lucky to have someone guiding her. Even if – maybe especially if – she wouldn’t sit next to Ms. Harrow in an empty bar just to give them both a better night.

Stella had no idea why there was a wardrobe team there, since they opted just to put her back in her USO circuit suit. And the fellow doing her hair wore more makeup than Stella had ever seen on a man, leaving her supremely uncomfortable. When he saw her, he ran his hands through the hair she did have left, and pursed his lips out in an exaggerated pout. 

“Ooh, very now, very aggro, I like.”

There were two young ladies on makeup, and while one practically socked her in the jaw with a big powder brush, the other held a large acrylic palette of garish eyeshadow towards her and asked her to sign it. Her pen was thick, and a brand Stella had seen around a lot, but on the first upstroke of the S, Stella startled to see the ink had come out gold. And full of glitter. Still, though, it was nice to know someone in the room was a fan.

When they finally spun her around to see ‘the whole look’ in a full-length mirror, Stella had a moment of panic that they’d done it all wrong. She’d seen herself done up before – for their USO gigs, and especially for the publicity shots – and those gals knew what they were doing. Today, instead, it was like they’d forgotten everything about what colors a face should be. They’d skipped the real lipstick and given her something sticky and peach-colored, and put a smear of brown on her eyelids.

“Is this right?” she asked, making eye contact with the taller girl in the mirror.

Instead, the shorter of the two answered. “Oh, yeah. Totally.”

She asked Heather too, when she popped around again, who at least took the time to actually look at her. She took Stella’s chin in her two manicured hands so that Stella could feel her extra-long nails, and swiveled her head around.

“Well, the eye is great. Very in right now, I promise. Is it the lip? I’m not really a fan of nude either. Should we get them to change it?”

Stella nodded avidly. And added, “Victory Red.”

Heather stood back, pivoting sharply, and told the makeup artist who hadn’t said a word the whole day, “The lip should be classic red. Captain America’s signature.” And at her word, they jumped, and Stella finally got some of her old face back.

After that, it was business as usual. She was used to these promo gigs – wear what they told you to wear, smile when they told you to smile, try not to blink when the flash bulb went off. So she sat still, and smiled big, and tried to rearrange her face into something new when the photographer yelled, “Great! And this time, we’re going for pretty!”

Even so, no matter what kind of pro she was, the whole thing put Stella in a sour mood. The ordeal had taken over three and a half hours, which was at least three too long. When it was over, she barely bothered with the niceties and high-tailed it up to the floor of SHIELD’s high-security offices, wanting to collect the morning’s briefing from Hill in hard copy before she left for the weekend. Only, instead of Hill, she walked smack-dab into Becky.

“Sorry about that.”

“No prob—hey,” Becky’s face lit up when she caught sight of Stella’s painted mug. “Smokey eye for the win, huh? They really went to town on you.”

Stella groaned, and tried to cover the worst of it with a hand. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” Becky said quickly. “You’d fit right in on Fifth Avenue. At night.”

“How about we forget you saw this? I have no idea who this person is.”

“I mean, I can.” She looked entirely too pleased. “But you know you’re gonna end up on every billboard across the country, right?”

Stella groaned again, and muttered, “The media coverage in this century is brutal.”

“Hey,” Becky reiterated, back to serious. “You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

She sighed. “It’s fine. Just a trying day.”

“Okay. If you’re sure. I mean, it’s a good look. Just, not necessarily… your look?”

Stella’s mouth twisted, chagrined. “No, I know. My agent worried about my approachability.”

Becky’s eyebrows shot up. “And she thinks this is gonna help?”

“I don’t know. I’m not _polling well_, whatever that means.”

“Umm, I’m pretty sure your approval ratings are through the roof.”

Stella shrugged, miserably. “Apparently, seventy-five percent is low for a national icon.”

“Are you kidding? The President’s are in the forties – and he’s a good one.”

“I don’t know – look.” Stella felt bone-weary, all of a sudden. “I just want to take this face off. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know, we’ll try something else next.”

“Okay,” Becky said, backing out of Stella’s personal space. “Of course. Have a good night.”

Stella gave her a tightly polite smile, and veered towards the office’s bathrooms.

“Hey,” Becky called from behind her, and Stella turned. “You wanna get a drink tonight? Forget about the day?”

And Stella, honest to a fault, said, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Twenty minutes later, with Stella freshly scrubbed and wearing a comfortably nondescript leather jacket, they walked down 7th Avenue.

“So, anyplace in particular you want to go?”

“Oh, no.” She put her hands up. “This was your idea, I’m just tagging along.”

Becky huffed, but smirked. “Alright, alright. Just be grateful—” She paused to pull her phone out of her jacket pocket, and fiddled with it just long enough to stop the buzzing it had started up, and then tucked it away again. “Just be grateful I’m taking you to a real bar. I could lead you right into a tourist trap, with a mechanical bull and everything, and you wouldn’t know ‘til we got all the way there.”

“Oh no,” Stella said in her flattest voice. “Anything but that.”

Becky tilted her head up to shoot Stella a glance, but she seemed pretty pleased with herself. She then decided she had to take Stella to her favorite dive bar, which was up past Harlem, so they veered into the subway and sat down to wait. To pass the time, they regaled each other with stories of the filthiest bars they’d been to, though Becky had her beat just from the sheer number of bars she could choose from.

When Becky’s phone rang again, she was slower to silence it.

“Do you need to get that?”

“Nah. It’s just some of my friends getting together.”

“Oh. I thought you were free. You didn’t need to cancel plans.”

She waved a hand casually. “I see them all the time. Besides, it’s not exactly my company they’re calling about.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I mean, I just told them something came up.” She chuckled. “Which, you know, they always assume is code for meeting some hot girl—"

Stella’s spine straightened of its own accord, suddenly bombarded by the heavy glug-glug of her pulse through her veins and in her ears. “Oh. But, I mean, this isn’t—”

“Of course not. I never said it was.” That did not, in any way, help. “They don’t know who I’m meeting, or that it’s just a friend date. You think they’d be calling if they thought I was at home on the couch? They’re looking for juicy details.”

Stella didn’t know, exactly, what a ‘friend date’ was, and the ambiguity roiled in her stomach. “But. They’ll think that we’re—”

“But,” Becky interrupted, “We aren’t.”

“Still,” Stella pushed, suddenly flushed and inarticulate, like when she’d been seven years old and swatted on the behind for rushing her prayers. “What if they see us? And make assumptions. I can’t –” She looked around at the slew of bored people waiting for trains. She didn’t spot any obvious eyes on them, but that didn’t mean anything. She stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

“Stella, wait.” She shot one hand up to lay on Stella’s forearm. It was reminiscent of Heather’s hands on her only that morning, pushing her around bodily like a Patsy doll, but with Becky’s hand it was entirely different. No grip, she noticed, no pressure. It was just… warm. Too warm, perhaps, and anything but calming, but Becky didn’t need to know that. She respected that it wasn’t supposed to be like that, for Stella. “I’ll fix it,” she was saying. “It was just habit. I’m sorry.”

“Your friends always claim to be meeting hot—” Stella sat, abruptly, to keep her voice between them as people rushed for an arriving train behind them, “—meeting hot girls?”

“Of course not. It’s just the default assumption for all of us. Mostly ‘cause none of them want to admit when they’d rather just watch Netflix on a Friday night.”

“But why _that?” _

“Wishful thinking? I mean, that’s what you get with a bunch of dykes on bikes.”

“A bunch—” Stella frowned, confused. “You’re far too pretty to be a dyke.”

Becky’s mouth pursed, watching Stella carefully. “Well, A,” she said, holding up a thumb finger, “that’s an outdated and insensitive stereotype, and you should know better. And B,” she added her pointer finger, “who knew you were a flatterer.” She’d added a lilt to her voice that told Stella she was joshing around, but Stella still felt the heat crawl over her neck and up her ears. She threw one hand over her eyes immediately.

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Any of that. Mother of Jesus.”

A light touch played on the back of her hand. “Stella, it’s ok. Really.”

“Are they where your olive branch came from? When you moved back?”

“Oh. No.” She looked startled, maybe, but then reconsidered. “I mean, yes, these are the people I met through her, but she moved to LA for a job a while ago.”

While that sounded like a very normal progression of events, Becky’s attention seemed to linger on it, mouth pulled into a little frown. “I’m sorry,” Stella offered.

She shrugged. “It’s alright. Break ups are always hard, right?” Then she put on a wide smile – blatantly false – and said, “Tell you what. How about this? I clarify with my friends, then we go get that drink and leave this conversation in the dust. Sound good?”

Stella mulled that thought over – of Becky with a past lover who still made her frown – but was just as intrigued by the series of messages Stella could easily make out on Becky’s phone, which Stella assumed had to be on purpose. There were a number of (fairly lewd) notes of encouragement and requests for details, and Becky had sent back, in a different colored bubble: **sorry to disappoint guys, just a work thing**. Someone else had already responded with a weird string of letters that read: **wtf ugh boooo**_._

“Sounds good,” Stella said faintly.

“Alright. Heavy drinking it is, then. So, are you a shots girl or a beer girl?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“Oh, uh. It’s all the same to me.”

Becky’s eyes searched her face, once. Twice. And then she said, “Oh my god, you can’t drink.”

“I mean, I can.”

“Stella.”

“What?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Depends.”

Becky leaned in. “Next time I make a dumbass suggestion, please just say, _Barnes, that’s a dumbass suggestion._”

“We’ll see,” Stella hedged, but she found herself smirking back.

And that was good enough for Becky, it seemed, because she popped up and said, “Great. So. Forget the dive bar. Any other requests? Anything about this new millennium that you’re dying to try?”

She thought of her canned answers – “I always loved Coney Island” or “I never did climb the Empire State Building”, but instead said, “You guys seem to have a lot of meat now?”

Becky tilted her head. “Is that a euphemism?”

“No! Um, I mean, we’d splurge on Easter and get a ham hock, but now you guys just have it in every grocery store, and pre-sliced for sandwiches whenever you want. And it lasts so long - it’s amazing.”

Becky went still as she spoke, attentive, but too still. Stella got the familiar impression she’d made someone uncomfortable by talking about the past again, so she tried to divert. “I mean, did your family celebrate Easter? Is ham still traditional?”

“Alright, Stella Rogers,” she finally said, and pointed one long finger in her face. “Forget dive bars, those haven’t changed. One of these days, I’m gonna take you out to a steak house. A fancy steak house, somewhere ritzy and embarrassing and delicious. But tonight, it’s burgers on me. We put bacon on them, now. And avocado. You’ll love it.”

Stella wasn’t so sure, mostly because she had never had avocado before. When she said as much to Becky, she gave Stella a friendly slug on the shoulder, and a huge grin. “Oh, then I’m about to change your life.”

She didn’t, as it turned out, change Stella’s life, but she did make an incredibly stressful day and week almost worth it. And for that, Stella was grateful. Becky didn’t seem to mind the lack of liquor, or when Stella rambled about the piss poor state of food during her adolescence. In turn, Becky told her about the ‘religious experience’ of discovering Vietnamese food for the first time, and her doomed efforts to recreate it in her own kitchen. Stella also found that while Agent Barnes tended to hold eye contact like it was a dagger to your throat, Becky let herself get distracted into ripping up paper napkins and laughing at Stella’s dumb jokes.

Stella’s good mood lasted until she got home, and Jarvis greeted her at her door.

“Captain,” he said, “I thought you would like to know that a makeup case claiming to have your signature on it has been put up for auction. The current bidding price is two thousand dollars.”

And so Jarvis taught her about Ebay, and Stella remembered being able to drink away a lousy day with great fondness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: Makeup of the 1940s was softer than other decades, sometimes with a bright lip but always subtler eye makeup. Even the eyeliner and mascara were less bold, no sharp lines and definitely no winged tips, and a smokey eye was completely unheard of. In the year Stella woke up, bright eyeshadow and nude/peachy lips were in style, which is just about as much an opposite as you can get.


	9. CHAPTER 9

At some point, Stella realized, the missions weren’t a surprise anymore. She knew the full extent of magic maneuvers Tony’s suit could pull off, and when he’d just yell, “It’s science, not a miracle wishing well!” instead. She knew which conditions Sam could and could not fly in, and when to let Natasha just talk them out of hot water instead of fighting their way out, and the distances at which Clint or Becky would still make a clean shot. She knew that blinking lights could mean far more danger than just a bomb, and that nearly everyone thought that playing up to Captain America’s ‘feminine sensibilities’ with a sob story would buy them enough time to slip out of their restraints. They were adamantium-reinforced, so _good luck with that,_ and the futility of it had made Tony snap, “Shut up – she doesn’t care” more than once. Natasha had even kneecapped a guy once when the daughter he wailed about in his plea for mercy had changed from a ‘Jessica’ to a ‘Jennifer’, and Stella barely frowned. Which was to say that Stella had gotten comfortable, and her team had too.

Which was how Stella found herself asking about things to do at her next no-stakes poker game with Tony. At some point there would be stakes, and then one of them would owe the other a lot of _something_ but Stella couldn’t think of anything she wanted. Tony had said, once, that the only thing Stella had that he couldn’t just buy for himself were stories about his father, but Stella’s offer to just give him those for free had apparently been ‘so earnest’ that she ‘ruined it’. So for now, the winner got to pick dinner and loser had to pay, even though they both just let Pepper choose. Tony’s well-to-do friends joined them occasionally, with a buy-in that was, frankly, ridiculous, just for the chance to brag that they played cards with Captain America. But the spoils almost always went to Stella or Tony, so the tradition stood, and any real money they made went to Pepper’s ever-growing list of favorite charities. It was a nice routine that Stella looked forward to and, yeah. Comfortable.

“What do you mean, things to do?” Pepper asked, watching her intently over a tumbler of whiskey, neat.

“I don’t know. It’s getting to be fall, and I figured there must be some traditions to mark the change of the seasons?”

“Hmm. I don’t know. Tony?” She looked to him.

“Don’t ask me. Fall just means JARVIS starts going, _don’t forget your scarf, sir._”

The ceiling said, “You always forget your scarf, sir.”

“He even programmed X-Force here to carry it out after me.”

Stella looked in the direction Tony was gesticulating, confused, until she saw the little drone that flashed emoticons (Jarvis had found that term for her) at everyone. “You named your feelings robot X-Force?”

“Excuse you,” Tony pointed. “I named my sophisticated marquee drone X-Force because its propellers are mounted on an X-frame, and it forces everyone to acknowledge the mood.”

Stella looked to Pepper. “Feelings bot?” And she nodded, smirking, but sagely kept her mouth shut when Tony whipped his head towards her.

“Anyway,” Tony said loudly. “What kind of fall activities did you have in mind? Like a party? We could throw a party.”

“No,” she shrugged. “That’s alright.”

“What did you used to do, to mark the seasons?”

“Nothing big.” She was self-conscious, now that she’d brought it up. “The boys always had one last stick ball game, but they wouldn’t let a girl join.” She put her emphasis on all the right words to make Pepper roll her eyes. “And Ma and I – it sounds stupid now.” But two big sets of eyes were on her, like she’d just told them she’d traveled to another planet and had brought back a secret, and she shifted in the plush armchair of Tony and Pepper’s living room. “We’d take the old dish rags outside on the night of the first freeze, and arrange them into different shapes so we’d have dolls in the morning.” She shrugged, again, to slip the story from her mind and out of conversation.

But Pepper said, “What a sweet memory. I bet your mom thought fondly of it, once you got too big for dolls.”

And Stella had to laugh, because, “Oh, yeah. I got into fights more times trying to play stick ball than I ever actually played with the dolls, but we always did it, all the same.”

Then Jarvis made the customary static he used to alert people he was about to speak, and Stella was grateful for the diversion.

“It may interest you to know,” he said, “that the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center has just opened.”

“Oh,” Pepper perked up. “That’s perfect.”

Stella had to agree. “Would you two like to go?”

“Oh, Lord, no. I’m like a baby giraffe – all legs and no balance. And Tony,” she flung a hand out to smack his arm, “won’t mix with the commoners.”

“Slander,” he said calmly. “It’s just unsafe to try my ice skate upgrades anywhere the general public could get hurt.”

Stella almost stopped herself from rolling her eyes, but failed.

____

She called Natasha the next day, once it was ‘daytime people hours’ – Natasha’s words – to ask if she liked ice skating.

“Please learn to text,” she said.

“Fine. But, do you like ice skating? We could try out the rink at Rockefeller.”

“No. Skating brings out my competitive streak. Not safe for civilians.”

So she called Sam, and left a voicemail. When the day had passed, and then the next one too, Stella gave it up as a lost cause. _That’s fine,_ she thought,_ I don’t have to go. _ And then, _that’s fine, I can just go by myself. _And then, because she had already put the energy into attempting a social life outside the Tower and wanted it to amount to something, she decided to ask Becky. Over text. Because while Sam and Nat were pretty much used to her Luddite ways, there was still the risk of scaring Becky off. It took much longer than she’d anticipated to craft a decent message, and the phone insisted it be sent in an incredibly awkward format, but eventually she sent:

**Hello Becky. Would **  
**you be interested in**  
**going to the ice**  
**skating rink at**  
**Rockefeller Center**  
**this Saturday? I am**  
**planning to go to**  
**celebrate Fall. - Stella**

Of course, the response she got was from Sam, who was polite enough to call back.

“Hi Sam.”

“Rogers, you sweet on me or something?”

“What?” She frowned, hard. “Not a chance, Wilson. Whatever you’re pulling, it’s not funny.”

He crowed into the phone. “Oh man, this is priceless. What I’m pulling? You’re the one who left me a voicemail asking if I wanted to go _ice skating_. At _Rockefeller._ Don’t you know that’s date territory?”

“Obviously not,” she grumbled, to more of Sam’s deep laughter.

“Look, Stella, I’m gonna do you a favor and say no, unless you want our picture in all the tabloids, talking about how progressive you are for wanting to have my half-black babies.”

“Wilson!” She was vaguely scandalized, though she didn’t know what shocked her the most – that he’d said it, or that it was true. In hindsight, she should have seen this coming. “I never had this problem during the war.”

“That’s because you were sleeping in trees and getting shot at. See you later, Rogers.”

And speaking of problems – Stella scrambled with her phone to cancel the offer to Becky, only to find that in the three minutes she’d been blindsided on the phone with Sam, Becky had texted back.

**Hello yourself. **  
**look at you, learning**  
**to text ;)**  
**that sounds fun – i’ve**  
** always wanted to**  
**go. What time?**

Stella groaned and, in a panic, sent back:

**Hi Becky. Wilson **  
**said it’s all couples.**  
**Maybe we**  
**shouldn’t.**

Her response, luckily for Stella’s pounding heart, was quick:

**lol. that’s a guy **  
**problem.**  
**we can go if we**  
**want to.**

When Stella took a moment to answer - these miniature letters people sent to each other were so cumbersome – another message from Becky popped up.

**Unless you’re try**  
**ing to back out again.**  
**Gonna give a girl a**  
**complex**

**We can still go**, Stella sent instead of what she’d already written. People seemed to prefer these things short and sweet. Punctuation optional, elocution be damned. Another bubble popped up on her screen quickly:

**Don’t do me any favors**

**I want to.**, Stella typed, and hit send before she could think better of it.  
**Forget Wilson.**  
**That’s what I get**  
**for listening to a**  
**guy who likes bands**  
**named after bugs.**  
**Can I convince you**  
**with hot chocolate**  
**too?**  
**It’s on me.**

It was a long several minutes before Stella’s phone buzzed again. She’d given up on holding it and put it down, only to pick it up three more times before it nearly vibrated itself off her coffee table.

**Sold. but no **  
**more trying to**  
**punk out on me.**  
**How about 2pm?**

_Yes ma’am_, Stella thought, and almost laughed at herself. She appreciated a woman who told you what she wanted. It surprised Stella, actually, how relieved she was that Becky had said yes. She felt it, viscerally, in the way her shoulders suddenly felt relaxed where she hadn’t known they were tense before. It hadn’t been her plan to go with Becky, before everyone else had declined, but suddenly the idea of going skating together held its own appeal.

That thought, itself, was problematic, because Becky was problematic. She was an excellent teammate and sniper – in a stake out or firefight, Stella would swear she knew Becky as well as Tony, or Wilson. But outside of professional ops, she was as much a conundrum as the day they’d met. More so, even, because while her dossier made sense, Stella was beginning to suspect that she was an ex-military sniper who’d never actually served in the military. Not to mention being a wounded veteran with a prosthetic too advanced for US technology and an American who only ever talked about her time in Russia. It would remind her of Natasha’s polished persona, except for how fired up she’d seen Becky get – about space flight, and team loyalty, and the uncertainty of new beginnings. For all the holes in Becky’s explanations, sometimes it seemed as though Becky was more honest with her than anyone. That contrast made Becky fascinating, just as her open sexuality made her dangerous. It would be risky, to be associated with her publicly. But then, she told herself, Becky was just one of many colleagues she spent time with. And besides – and this was the kicker – she wanted to.

It was much later that night, when Stella was changing into her night clothes, that her phone buzzed loudly with another text from Becky.

**Were you talking about  
the Beatles?????????**

____

That Saturday, Stella got to the rink fifteen minutes early to scope it out, and was gratified to see that it was not only couples, but a mix of mostly families with young children, pods of teenagers, and what couples there were, were too busy holding hands to even skate. It was crowded, too, which was perfect. It made them harder to spot, especially with Stella’s almost-excessive knit cap and scarf. The day was bright, but chilly enough to warrant them, for most anyone else.

When Becky did show up, she was in the same dark wash jeans and leather jacket she favored, hair pulled back into the same clinically-tight braid. No hat for warmth – or privacy – just a blankly observant expression and her hands tucked into her jacket. When she spotted Stella, she casually leaned against the wall next to her and commented, “Half expected to find you hiding behind a lamp post.”

“Not much cover,” Stella commented, casually, and Becky laughed.

“Gets in the way of skating too.”

Stella decided to quit while she was ahead, and stepped out into the sun, towards the skate rentals. Then she turned, and asked, “Coming?”

Becky was thoughtful through the rentals line, watching the employees and tourists alike, and barely needed a glance to lace her skates up like they were an afterthought. It was once they got onto the ice, though, that she came back into herself.

“Oh my— god,” Becky laughed into her palm, “you’re awful at this!”

“No, I’m—” Stella flung an arm out to correct her center of balance, only to feel it shift and require the other arm up in the air as well. “I’m just getting the hang of it. Don’t—” Even as she watched them, she could see her feet slide without her permission. Muscles in her thighs that she rarely thought of and never trained were straining just to keep her upright. “Don’t laugh!”

Becky absolutely laughed. Though, she did make a token effort at keeping it behind her hand. As Stella fought with the skates, the pull of the ice, and gravity itself, Becky slid around her in neat little circles, calling out helpful advice.

“Use your core! Bend your knees – not that much!”

Stella tried – she did – but in the suspended moment that she admitted defeat and prepared to kiss the ice, a set of hands caught her by the elbows and held her upright. Her feet still tried to propel her lower half forward, but with an anchor at her back it was easier to stay put. Behind her, Becky’s chuckle was in her ear. Then she said, surprised and chiding, “Stella! You’re standing in meltwater.”

“It’s all meltwater,” she grumbled back.

“Of course it is, it’s a public rink on a sunny day. Come on, let’s get you to the wall.” Stella’s awareness of Becky was narrowed to the two supports on her arms, and the lack of wind at her back, and she focused on them, centering herself.

Like a pile of kelp on a fishing line, Becky slowly towed her to safety, where there was a rail to hold onto, and a shadow to keep the ice colder. She watched, then, as Becky pushed herself back, pivoting her hips this way and that to keep up a steady, backwards momentum. Given that most of the bystanders had made room for Stella’s six-foot-something pair of wild arms, Becky had enough room to try a small spin. It was impressive, especially when Becky shot her a look of surprised joy and tried it again, lifting one leg to let it trail in an arc that looked almost professional.

“Hey,” Stella called, “how’d you get so good at this?” Maybe this was the secret to Becky’s past – a rural snowy town, a two mile walk in the snow to school, uphill both ways.

But Becky just shrugged, grinning all the while. “I dunno.”

“I bet you grew up someplace the lakes froze over, practicing just for this moment.”

“It was plenty cold,” she shot back, doing her best to spin in place. “But you’re just sore I’m better than you at something.”

“You’re better than me at lots of things,” Stella said, but Becky hardly seemed to hear her. She had let her head fall back, arms stretched behind her to keep her balance as she skated in a tight figure-eight. Stella didn’t think she’d ever seen her – or anyone she worked with – look so at peace. It was stunning, and left Stella content to just watch, but eventually Becky righted herself and made her way to Stella’s wall.

“Come on,” she said. “Your turn.” And, like someone’s old Gram, Stella looped an arm through Becky’s and let herself be led back onto the ice. Becky placed her palms under Stella’s elbows again, this time in front of her, and gently carried Stella along as she showed off – that is, as she skated backwards again. “Just follow me,” she said, face flushed from the wind and the exertion. “It’ll be easier once you speed up.” And it was easier, trusting Becky, pitching her weight forward instead of back if she was about to fall. Somehow Becky’s expression had kept that same, calm joy, and Stella had a moment to think that she was grateful to see this side of her, before a near-slip forced Stella to concentrate again.

The afternoon passed easily enough, to the point that it was almost relaxing, until Becky announced that it was time for the training wheels to come off. Which meant stranding Stella by herself, while Becky waited for her at the wall. The ease she’d developed, it seemed, had been all Becky’s, because by herself Stella was back to awkward starts and stops. Not as bad as she’d been in the puddle, but she still thought of Pepper – _all legs and no balance._ When she got close enough to the wall, she looked up to see Becky waiting, and smirking, with her phone held directly in front of her face.

“What are – are you filming this?”

“Would I do that?” Becky called, keeping her phone trained directly on Stella.

She would, it turned out, when Stella could finally grasp the wall and give her legs a break. In the lower pocket of her tactical – no, _cargo_ – pants, she felt her phone buzz. Then Becky turned her phone to face Stella and, not only had Becky filmed her ungainly attempts at forward motion, but she’d given it a soundtrack. Stella had to press the thing up to her ear to hear over the noise of the crowds, but she was eventually able to pick out what sounded like a crooning song, going _She’s beauty, she’s grace, she’s Miss United States. _Stella’s eyes flashed up to catch Becky, shamelessly smirking at her.

“That’s just cruel. You did not need to send it to me.”

Becky just rolled her eyes, grinning madly. “I sent it to Natasha, in a group text with you.” At Stella’s surprise she added, “So you can learn how to text without sounding like a letter from the IRS.”

Stella rolled her eyes, discreetly, and was about to retort when her phone demanded her attention again. This time, it was a message from Natasha, starting with a string of letters that said:

**omg lol priceless. **  
**You guys in**  
**midtown? drinks?**

She looked up to see Becky reading over her shoulder, who shrugged when Stella raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I promised you a hot chocolate,” Stella said, before she’d thought better of it, and Becky’s satisfied smirk shifted into something much softer. Something that reminded Stella of the peace she’d seen on Becky’s face, out on the ice.

“Rain check?” she asked, and Stella wanted to convince herself she sounded hopeful.

There was a joke, when Stella was young – a limerick, almost – about how fellas would go dumb over a pretty girl’s smile. Once she grew up, she found out it wasn’t just fellas, and it wasn’t a joke. In the shadowed edge of the ice rink, Stella couldn’t blame the sun for how Becky’s eyes seemed lighted from within, or the tiny details she noticed in the gentle curve of her mouth, and the way her flush made the pale of her skin and the black of her hair all the more striking. It would be enough to distract her for hours and –

_Oh,_ Stella thought. _Oh damn._

____

Leaving to meet Natasha served as an excellent distraction from useless thoughts. It wasn’t the first time Stella had caught herself noticing an attractive girl – it probably wouldn’t be the last, if she were honest – but that’s where it ended. Stella wasn’t interested in anything beyond friendship, which, luckily, was all Becky was offering. She’d be more careful in the future.

Now, though, she followed Becky to the Rockefeller Center Metro Station, where Natasha joined them a few minutes later, in a coat lined with a suspiciously familiar sable-esque fur, and they headed underground to catch the D line. It had been unanimously decided – by virtue of Stella not really having an opinion – that they’d skip the bars and go back to Becky’s place for ‘that vodka Nat liked’. She felt oddly intimate, being invited into Becky’s home, as opposed to Pepper’s living room that was clearly designed for entertaining. She kept that to herself, though, letting Nat and Becky keep up the conversation on the ride over. They both seemed excited about a movie coming out about a female vengeance killer, and though Stella was keen to see how the cinema had advanced, she doubted that was the picture she’d choose to see.

Once they got to Becky’s third floor apartment, Natasha moved straight towards the kitchen like she had stocked it herself, and Becky threw their jackets across a stray chair. It was a nice place, about as big as what Stella’d grown up in, although the only thing that had really reminded her of home was the old stairwell. Inside, it was all industrial carpet and the same modern gadgets Stella’s place had – digital clocks, microwave, refrigerator with a whole separate freezer. It was overly tidy, too, like Natasha’s place, but much less austere.

Three tumblers came out of the cabinets, a bottle of clear vodka came out of the freezer, and then both women grinned. They each downed a mouthful at the kitchen counter before bringing things over to the couch, all while Stella watched on.

“So, this is the good stuff, huh?”

Nat nodded, and pushed one tumbler towards her. “Good enough to be worth trying.”

Stella gave her a bland look. Nat knew alcohol had fallen off her radar in 1942, but always seemed fond of making her drink new things anyway. So Nat and Becky settled onto an overfull sofa, while Stella got the armchair, and when they had three tumblers of cold vodka, Nat raised hers in a toast.

“Za zda-ró-vye!”

They knocked their glasses together, and it did, in fact, go down smooth.

Becky pulled out some chips as they chatted, while Nat got more and more comfortable on the couch until she was practically slouching. It was rare, to see any of her teammates with their guard down, and Stella stayed mostly quiet to let the other two discuss easy things, like the merits of Becky getting a cat and whether Nat should detour to Croatia on her next overseas op. Eventually, though, Nat clearly noticed Stella’s silence.

“So,” she asked, overloud. “Stel. How’s the crusade for women’s lib?”

Stella rolled her eyes, mildly, but at least she knew that term, now. She had been able to look it up without Jarvis’ help, but he had been happy to discuss what she’d found afterwards. And what she’d found was that, while parts of the legislation and public opinion had marched ever forward, a portion of the country had stayed firmly planted in the expectations of the 1930s.

“I’d much rather talk about Becky’s new cat.”

“Which I’m not getting,” Becky insisted. “There are only so many stereotypes I want to live up to.”

Nat mm-hmmed and patted her knee consolingly, but she kept her attention on Stella. “But I’m serious.” To Becky, she added, “Stella decided that modern women still need her help.”

Stella winced. “It sounds so pretentious, when you put it like that.”

“But, I mean,” Becky murmured, as if only Natasha should hear her. “If anyone can…”

Nat tilted her head in, conferring with Becky. “I know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“Guys, I can hear you.”

“We know,” Natasha said, easily. “So, what’s the story? You still planning to reach American women through their magazines?”

“That’s still the plan,” she confirmed. “At least to start with.”

“That makes sense,” Becky said. “You’ve been back for months and haven’t done an interview. It’s led to all sorts of speculation.”

Stella frowned. “How do you know that?”

She just shrugged. “I read.”

“Okay. So. The plan is to do a print interview and let people know where I stand, then partner with organizations to raise funds.” It was, after all, one of the things she’d done best. “Probably try to lobby a few senators, then Congress.” She realized both Nat and Becky had gone very still, two sets of eyes round and unblinking. “I mean, eventually,” she assured them. “Not right away.”

Nat hmmed again. “Not right away, sure.”

“But that sounds good,” Becky added, quickly. “To me.”

“I can see how you really need the people’s trust, though.”

And Stella nodded, emphatically. “There are so many doors that need to open, if I’m going to get anywhere. I really want to push on equal pay – that should have been solved decades ago. But there are so many other angles, and people who need help _now. _The wealth disparity in this century is ridiculous, and that’s not a women’s issue, exactly, but it is probably worth tackling first. Or,” she gestured aimlessly, in agitation, “we acknowledge that it’s a systemic problem. Maybe I should be talking to kids, so that in fifty years, they’ve just known these things were problems all along and finally fixed them themselves.”

Stella cut herself off, mostly for Nat and Becky’s sake. She had a tendency to overwhelm people with her enthusiasm for this stuff. But then Nat said, “Don’t stop on our account.”

She ran a hand through her hair, loose after a day in the knit cap. She kept it long on top, these days, like Becky had suggested. “It’s all hypothetical at this point. I just want to make sure girls have a fighting chance, you know.”

Becky snorted. “You could always open a gym.” And Stella gave her an unimpressed look. “Okay, it’s not the grandest idea, but Captain America opening a women-only gym in New York? Teaching self-defense classes? Isn’t that exactly on-brand?”

Natasha added, “And she could sell athletic gear.” She laughed while Stella rolled her eyes, but they were having too much fun to stop.

“Yeah. And good stuff, too. Like, pants that aren’t see-through when you bend over.”

“Ooh, and sports bras that don’t suck.”

“Guys,” Stella called, “guys. Come on. I’m not starting a fashion line. And I certainly am not in it for the money.”

“Fine,” Becky insisted, with a casual flick of her hand. “So, give it away.”

“Like a soup kitchen?”

“Like a charity, yeah. Get athletic wear to girls who can't afford it.”

“Honestly, Stella,” Nat interrupted, voice serious again, “do you know how many inner-city girls never see a gym or learn to protect themselves? There _is_ a need.”

“And it’s something you could do on the home front, while you reach out to the rest of America.”

Stella thought about it. “I like that.”

“Great.” Becky grinned, too-wide and shit eating. “All I want is fifty percent of the profits.”

“Absolutely.” Stella promised. “As soon as this non-profit nets its first million, it's yours. I, might need you two to test drive the clothing though, if it happens.” They both shrugged and nodded. “Especially the, uh.” She vaguely waved a hand in front of her chest, and both women laughed.

“I mean, sure.”

But then Nat held up a hand. “Hold up. I need answers. Because you—” she pointed boldly at Stella, “clammed up last time we asked you about this, and I let it slide ‘cause you were the new kid on the block. But what gives? How are sports bras some foreign concept?”

“They’re not—"

“What are you wearing under there that you don't want us to know about?”

“Um, nothing?”

“No, really,” Nat pushed. Between them, Becky’s head pivoted back and forth like she was watching a ball game.

“No, really.” Stella shrugged, embarrassed. “I don't wear anything much, really.”

“Are you kidding me—”

“There's elastic built into the combat suit—”

Nat’s hand dropped to the coffee table with a loud slap. “I'm out.”

“No, wait—”

“That's just so monumentally unfair.”

“Why do you think I didn't tell you on the ground in Russia?” She looked between both incredulous faces. “You would have killed me.” Peggy nearly had, and neither of them had had elastic to work with.

“Amen to that,” Becky muttered, and Nat added:

“Still might.”

“What if we made a clothing line to fix that?” Stella said, hastily. “Can’t do that if I’m dead.”

“Ugh, fine.” Nat slumped back into the couch. “You survive this time, Rogers.”

Becky, who still looked stunned but amused, pushed herself up off the couch. “This calls for more drinks. Which will also require food.”

They decided to walk to a little Italian place Becky favored, and then decided that the whole night had been such a good idea, they should do it again.

____

Within a few weeks, Stella realized that her dance card was getting fuller. Between Nat and Becky’s fondness for Saturday ‘girls’ nights’, Monday poker with Tony (which was really Monday dinner with him and Pepper), and Thursday basketball at the VA, Stella wasn’t even missing Heather’s calls on purpose anymore. In fact, when Natasha wanted to go see a showing of a classic Noir film that she insisted would be a blast from Stella’s past on a Thursday evening, Stella was faced with the unusual sensation of having to choose between plans.

She did decide to accompany Natasha, because there were few things she enjoyed more than hearing Natasha’s dryly scathing inner thoughts muttered out loud, and on the off chance she’d recognize some of the actors. She didn’t, but she did get a long series of texts from Sam asking _why she do him like that?_ When she flashed the phone to Natasha, she simply plucked it from Stella’s hand and sent back a quick reply that read:

**As my Ma used**  
**to say, bless her**  
**soul: Chicks b4**  
**dicks**

“What?” Stella hissed, grabbing the phone back. “What does that—she never said a thing like that.”

Nat gave her a calculating look. “You know, I bet she did. I just updated the ling-o.” And the way she over-enunciated her words was a sure sign Nat was having a silent laugh at her expense, but Sam was already texting back several lines of laughter and question marks, so she turned her attention to that.

The next weekend found Stella and Nat back at Becky’s, with the other two trying to convince Stella to get a massage.

“It’s decadent,” Nat insisted. “Someone works you over until you can’t help but relax. It’d really do you good.”

Stella couldn’t really picture Natasha relaxing, let alone with some stranger’s hands all over her, and told her so.

She just shrugged. “They’re not strangers. They’re SHIELD staff and, I promise you, I know their whole life story before I even walk in there.”

Stella could picture that, which was just as much a problem.

“Besides,” Becky added, “it’s a physiological response. Works the tension out.”

“Yeah.” From across the room in Becky’s one, plush arm chair, Nat motioned to where Becky was seated beside Stella on the sofa. “Show her - do that thing with your thumb in the trap muscle.”

Becky watched her, questioningly, as she raised her right arm towards Stella. When Stella didn’t protest, she carefully slipped her hand onto Stella’s shoulder and then up, thumb digging into the thick muscle with an alarming precision that sent a wave of weakness down her whole right side, from her shoulder to her stomach and all the way down her leg. Stella grunted, surprised, and the other two laughed. Then Becky shifted, warm palm skimming across the back of her neck to reach the other side, and Stella’s chest felt overfull with anticipation. She wanted to lean into the sensation, to follow the tug in her breastbone with such abrupt longing that her eyes fell closed.

Stella jerked upright, poised to fight but with no target at hand, and said, “No. No, it’s fine. If I’m still tense after next week, I’ll get a massage.”

A quick glance told her that Becky was watching her, confused, but Natasha said, “What’s next week?”

“That interview. It, uh, finally got scheduled. With People.”

“What?” Becky froze, hand almost back in her lap but poised, mid-air. “You’re interviewing with People Magazine?”

“Yes,” Stella admitted, ready to launch into the rote explanation she’d given herself so many times.

“No,” Becky said, bluntly. “Uh-uh. You deserve Time. The New York Times, maybe. Not People.”

“My agent thinks it’s the best way to get into as many households as possible.”

“Look,” Becky looked grim, but spread her hands wide. “I’ve said this before. But I’m not sure your agent really gets it.” From the other side of the room, Natasha made a deep noise of assent, and Becky pivoted sharply towards her. “You knew she was doing People?”

“Did you know,” Nat said instead, drawing the words out, “that her agent calls her Sweetheart?”

Becky folded her arms across her chest. “Did you know that her agent calls her _Miss Rogers_?”

Nat’s wide eyes turned on Stella like spotlights. “I did not. Stella.”

“I fixed that. Look, she’s not malicious—”

“She’s just not very good at her job,” Nat finished.

“We don’t know that. I don’t know that,” Stella insisted. Heather was, at the very least, trying to help Stella get her own message out, instead of censoring it to drum up support like the SSR, or SHIELD. And God knew her other source of guidance – the internet – couldn’t be trusted. All she had done was go looking for a little fashion advice for a haircut and nearly exposed herself in the process. “Would you just leave it be? For now?”

Nat and Becky were having some kind of eyes-only conversation that Stella wasn’t privy to, but when Nat finally looked to her she said, “For the moment. If you’ll think about it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

As it turned out, though, she didn’t get a chance. Because the next morning, Stella’s phone was rattling the whole apartment with the buzz of a phone call. It was as much an overloud nuisance as ever, but the fact that it was Pepper calling was a welcome surprise.

“Hello Pepper,” she greeted the phone. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Stella. I’m glad I caught you.” She sounded rushed.

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Are you really interviewing with People Magazine?”

She frowned, rubbing intently at the ridge of her eyebrow. “Romanov told you?”

“She did. I’m surprised you didn’t mention it yourself, though.”

Stella thought back to their easy dinner conversations, and to the way Pepper would give Stella a knowing look before sliding her heels off under the table and propping them up on the side of Tony’s chair. “It didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

“But Stella, this is what I do.”

“That’s not—"

“It is. Listen. As one of the few women running a Fortune 500 company, interviewing has become a specialty of mine. Stella, People Magazine is like—” Stella heard her turn away from her phone, mumbling something, and then the distinctive tone of Jarvis in the background. “Jarvis says it’s like interviewing for the Ladies’ Home Journal.”

“I _did_ interview with the Ladies’ Home Journal.”

“Alright, but.” On the other end, Stella could hear Pepper shifting restlessly. “Not _just_ for them. Do you think they would have sent you back into Austria if only a lady’s journal covered your rescue of the hundred-and-seventh? Your first interview sets a precedent.”

Stella shifted back on her heels, surprised. Pepper had never so much as mentioned the war, let alone with any detail. And besides that, Stella grimaced, because she had a point. When Stella’d snuck into Azzano – unsanctioned and unprepared – it was not only the coverage in the New York Journal and Chicago Daily that saved her from being court-martialed and hung to dry, but also The Citizen, The Derby Daily Telegraph and Le Monde. It hadn’t occurred to her that, after one interview, others wouldn’t follow. Suddenly, Pepper’s point started to weigh on her stomach like a week-old catch of the day. She sighed, “Pepper…”

“Just meet with my old agent, alright? See what you think. I know that you’re—” she paused, as if about to say something delicate. “I know you’re quite loyal to the people that you’ve met so far. But I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think it was crucial. Alright?”

Stella ambled across her living room to drop into the nearest chair. Somehow, even standing suddenly seemed like a burden. “Alright.”


	10. CHAPTER 10

Stella did make plans to meet with Pepper’s suggestion – and soon, given the impending timeline – but first she went to Natasha’s favorite break room, favorite conference room and, eventually, her favorite gym. Natasha was mid-air when Stella walked in, her thighs wrapped around a suspended medicine ball, but she dropped silently to the mats when she heard Stella walk in. By the time she’d turned around to face her, Natasha’s back was straight and her chin was up.

“Not sorry.”

And for all Stella had planned this – had a very logical list of complaints to enumerate – she blurted, “You said you’d leave it alone.”

“For the moment,” she said, coolly. “And then your moment was over.”

“That’s not how leaving things alone works.”

“You can tantrum all you want—” Stella glowered, because she wasn’t – “but I was just righting a wrong. Don’t make that face. Becky made it clear what shitty advice I’d given you, so I fixed it.”

“I don’t appreciate you pulling strings without letting me know. Especially when they’re attached to my career.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but Stella crossed her arms, unmollified. “I wasn’t going behind your back. I called in an expert to advise you properly. There’s a difference.”

“Even so.”

“Fine.” She shrugged, casually moving to where her gear was dumped at the side of the mat to pick up some wrist tape. Stella noticed, though, that she never turned her back to Stella. “You want me to tell you next time I do you a favor.”

“Yes,” Stella said, emphatically, and Natasha rolled her eyes, but then had the gall to smile back.

“Then, you’re welcome. Good chat, Rogers.”

And because that was as much as she could ever hope to get out of Natasha, she left it at that.

____

There was still the matter of talking to Becky. Because, ‘girls nights’ or not, it rankled to have her making decisions on Stella’s behalf. It felt like an overtight coat – mildly irritating, ignorable, but likely to pin her down when she most needed her freedom. That meant finding her at HQ, though, because this wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have in frustratingly short phone letters. However, no matter when she popped into Becky’s little corral of offices, she couldn’t seem to catch her, which led her back to her own apartment with nothing but unanswered questions.

Her irritation mounted overnight, and wasn’t helped by the fact that when she finally did find her in a copy room and asked her not to push agendas on Stella’s behalf, Becky’s mulish response was:

“Well, somebody has to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Becky glanced up from whatever she was aggressively making copies of to squint at Stella. “You know what it means. Stop letting your agent call the shots.” Then she turned a diffident eye back to her task, as if she said something perfectly reasonable.

“That’s her job.”

“Not if she’s serving her own career instead of yours. And you should know that.”

“How?” Stella demanded, “How am I supposed to navigate press coverage I know nothing about? In newspapers that are never printed out?” Her own feet were firmly planted just inside the doorway, and her clenched jaw was a perfect match for Stella’s, but Becky’s hands finally abandoned their pointless paper shuffling to fly up, twitching in the air like an agitated puppet master.

“Learn! Get online, read your email. Make a goddamn Twitter handle. You’re too smart to be brought down by social media. And to be honest—” one of her hands cut through the air, sharp and decisive, “I’m offended you’d give up so easily.”

Stella reared back, struck. “And who are you to judge?”

“Your friend,” Becky snapped, half accusation.

“Are you? Or are you just another person telling Captain America what to do? Is that why—” Stella caught her words, abruptly, and stepped in so that only Becky could hear her. “Is that why you gave me your number when we’d barely seen two missions together?”

“I was trying to be nice, you asshole.”

Stella's hackles rose and, just like in any fight where someone had her backed into a corner, she poised herself behind the biggest weapon she had. “Yeah? Were you trying to be nice when you lied about your service record? When you faked your birth certificate?”

“That’s—” Becky’s shock was visible – the way her eyes snapped wider and her shoulders tensed – but if the hurt on her face had been enough to make Stella doubt herself, it was gone the moment Becky did what any cornered enemy would do. It was brief, barely a flick and then back, but in the face of Stella’s accusations, Becky was guilty as charged. Obviously, because she was scoping the exits.

“How did you find that?”

“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Stella said, stonily, because she knew better than to catalogue her own mistakes for her, though they had been numerous and poorly disguised. From her misinformation about the army, to the way she talked about coming to the US like a migrant but avoided personal questions like they were a trap. If Stella thought back to their first mission, even Becky’s injured sleep-talk was in Russian.

Becky held her head high, her back straight, and announced, “I don’t have to discuss that with you.”

But Stella was already on alert, and leapt back to block the doorway. Her hefty shoulders took up the whole width and, even if they hadn’t, she outweighed Becky by a good forty pounds. “The hell you don’t. You want me to take control? Here is it. You give me one good reason why I shouldn’t bring you in for treason.”

Becky looked trapped, ready to fight if it came to that. “Because you know me.”

“Do I? Are you even Rebecca Barnes?”

“Come on, Stella. That’s just a name.”

Becky’s lips were pursed tight, left hand poised over one of her hidden sheaths. Whatever she was hiding, she clearly refused to apologize for it. But Stella wasn’t afraid to push. “Who are you?”

“I – I don’t have an answer for that.”

“What does that mean?”

Becky, reading her as well as she always could, held out one arm to stave her off. “Stella. I’ll tell you. I was going to tell you.”

“Well, you missed your window,” Stella hissed. “Who are you?”

“I don’t know! They gave me names but they weren’t real names.”

“Be. More. Specific.”

“The Soldier. They called me The Soldier, okay? The Ghost. The Boogieman. Athena. Baba Yaga.”

“I don’t understand. Who’s They?”

Her fingers twitched over her knives as Becky looked up with moist, miserable eyes, and said, “Hydra, probably.”

“All this time –”

“No,” she bit out, vehemently. “I escaped. I’m helping you end them,” she insisted. Her hands made sharp, aborted gestures in the air. “I made it here as a refugee, and – Stella, Nick Fury made me that birth certificate. And my passport. SHIELD knows.”

“Is that supposed to make me trust you?”

“No. You’re supposed to trust me because I’ve done nothing but look out for you. I’ve never once jeopardized a mission, or your privacy.”

It was true, Stella knew, if she took it at face value. But instead of comforting, it just made Stella feel obsolete. If Fury already knew about Becky’s past, there was nothing more Stella could do in the moment. It would be just another thing people had lied to her face about.

And Becky Barnes was clearly among them. Without a word, Stella stepped away from the door, leaving Becky’s exit path wide and clear. She noticed immediately, eyes going wide and shocked before she shuttered them. Becky’s glare was powerfully cold, but even that wasn’t enough to bulldoze her patented Stella Rogers Stubbornness. After a moment of stalemate, Becky raised her shoulders, and then her chin, and said, “You really are an asshole.”

Stella figured it took one to know one, and waited until she was too far to turn back before she made her move. Then she left SHIELD immediately, taking the closest service elevator to the garage without passing a single person she recognized. Even once back at her apartment, she stalked through the living room to reach her own bedroom, where Jarvis was disabled. It only took a few laps of pacing around the room, though, to realize that the enclosed space didn’t help with her pent-up energy. Soon enough she had to weigh the risk of surveillance with the need to… vent. Physically, and aggressively.

After several strides through her living room, Jarvis said, “Captain, if I may—”

“You may not,” she barked, and shut the front door behind her.

____

Hitting things helped, especially since the Tower gym had reinforced carbon-alloy eye-hooks to hold the bags to the ceiling. Stella let herself go, grunting with effort and seeing how close she could get to destroying the punching bags anyway. By the time she got back to her apartment she was tuckered out – no less angry, but at least calm, and it gave her the headspace to think. 

Even she had to admit that the afternoon’s conversation had spiraled quickly. But finding a Hydra agent on her own team – among people she called friends – was too big a shock. She was as angry at herself for not figuring it out as she was at Becky for hiding it. It seemed, almost, like proof that this new century held curveballs that even she wasn’t equipped for. Or, maybe she was going soft. A luxury apartment and an abundance of serviceable food could do that to you.

Still, she decided, falling wearily into bed that night - Becky had been operating under false pretenses, and Stella didn’t have room in her new life for that kind of deception.

____

Stella didn’t run into Natasha until two mornings later, in the Tower elevator. Her apartment was on a floor below Stella’s, and so the frequent early morning song-and-dance of bemoaning a day spent at HQ was old hat. Instead of her usual greeting, though, Natasha managed to step onto the elevator in a way that jostled Stella before putting the usual distance between them. When she didn’t acknowledge the misstep – because when did Natasha ever misstep – Stella raised a wry eyebrow. “You got something to say?”

“Yeah,” she said, not bothering to look over from the closing elevator doors. “Get over yourself, Rogers.”

“Natasha.”

“Don’t Natasha me. Not everyone has the luxury of knowing why and how they were made.”

That ever-present agitation strained against Stella’s uniform. “You knew too?”

“It’s easy to spot your own training, Stella.” Her eyes barely flicked to Stella’s distorted reflection, but not long enough to be anything more than a dismissal, and it rankled all the more.

“But. You were Red Room? Did you know her?”

“You know, from a certain angle, Russian identity-wiping spy camps all kinda look the same.”

“Oh,” Stella murmured.

And Natasha said, “Yeah – oh,” right before Jarvis had the elevator ding to announce the gym floor. Natasha disappeared swiftly, leaving a bitterly stunned Stella in her wake. Not that – not that it changed anything.


	11. CHAPTER 11

Stella did her best to abandon any thought of Becky and the fight that had been creeping into her mind each night, just as she tried to fall asleep. She made her way down to the third floor meeting room where she was supposed to meet her potential PR manager, residually angry but determined not to take it out on this new person – not when Pepper was so fond of them. She hadn’t actually caught a name from Pepper, and it wasn’t until a middle-aged man nudged open the conference room door that she realized she’d been expecting another woman. He was quick and sure-footed, but non-descript in a way that Ms. Harrow had not been. Although, how a 21st century middle-aged man was supposed to navigate her public image better was beyond her.

“Hello,” he said, letting the door click shut behind him and striding over. “Phil Coulson.” He put his hand out to shake. “You can call me Coulson.”

She shook his hand. “Pleasure to meet you. You can call me—” Only, she stopped abruptly when she realized she had already failed this step before.

Smile lines crinkled on the man’s face, but Stella read no judgement there. “We’ll work on that,” he assured her. “Should we sit?”

They did, though Coulson looked far more comfortable than she felt. He hefted a heavy binder out of his briefcase, smiling all the while. He continued on, unaffected, while Stella mostly felt the urge to fidget.

“Pepper suggested that maybe I start off with an explanation of my role here?”

“You tell me where to be and when to keep my mouth shut, right?” she asked, with a brief smile and an attempt at levity. After all, it wasn’t like press agents were a modern invention, and she’d been through the circuit quite a few times.

“Oh, um. Of course, I would be advising you on all your statements, but that’s more of a functional consequence, than anything. My main job is to understand the image you want to project, and help you craft and protect that.” He paused, only briefly, and to Stella’s silent response he added, “You can think of me as a source of informed advice for your best interests.”

“And SHIELD’s.”

He blinked. “Yes, and SHIELD’s. But if your interests are ever in conflict, I’ll certainly tell you so.”

She held in a sigh. “Mr. Coulson. I appreciate what you’re doing, but I know how this works. I wouldn’t expect you to protect an individual client over your own employer.”

His blink turned into a mild frown. “I am actually not employed by SHIELD. The arrangement I had with Ms. Potts, and what I would presumably have with you, would be a direct contract.” When Stella didn’t respond, he added, “I would work directly for you.”

“Oh,” she said. Then, “Was Heather’s contract outside of SHIELD?”

“Not as such,” he said easily. “If you’d prefer a different arrangement—”

“No. No, this is good.” She tried to smile, again, but could feel how it stretched too tight across her face.

“If you want to get started, then?” He gestured to the binder. “For today, I was thinking we could review your press kit and preferred brands as Ms. Harrow left them?”

He waited for Stella to nod, and then flipped to a mostly blank page.

“Great. Let’s start with your name. Ms. Harrow has you introduced as Miss Stella Rogers.”

“To make me seem more approachable.” Stella laughed, uncomfortably. “It _is_ my name.”

“Of course. It’s only – and I don’t want to sound negative right off the bat – but I worry that we’re not giving your military reputation the respect it deserves. Approachability is important, I agree, but I’ve never seen a veteran stripped of their rank before. It would especially never happen to a male vet,” he added, “which is all the more reason we should resist it for women. Would you consider, at least, going by Captain Stella Rogers?”

Stella watched his eyes flitting across her own face. “Yes. Yes, I’d prefer that.”

“Good,” he said, sagging into what seemed to be a moment of genuine relief. “Oh, I’m glad. I’ll admit, that was my biggest concern. Great.”

She mirrored his smile, merely to reinforce his mood. “Okay. Great.”

“Okay then.” He flipped through the binder with more gusto, not so much reading as searching for something. “Your targeted media outlet is CNN – decently bipartisan, all things considered – and your television rights go to The View?” He looked up, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve honestly never heard of it,” she admitted. “What’s their focus?”

“Hmm. Celebrity interviews, mainly. Maybe we can come back to that?”

Stella shrugged.

“Alright. And then of course, image is important. If you’d like to lock in a sponsorship with a certain clothing or makeup brand, we can certainly make that happen.”

Stella hoped her complete disinterest didn’t show on her face. Maybe that was the status quo these days, but she had no desire to think about who or what she wore, let alone throw her name behind one singular company. “Not particularly.”

“Really?” Coulson glanced down quickly. “Because there’s a note here that you’re in talks with Mary Kay?”

“Is Ms. Kay in clothing or makeup?”

He blinked again, more rapidly that she’d seen him do before. “I’m thinking,” he said slowly, “that Ms. Harrow’s interests might be more heavily represented here than she intended?”

Stella wondered, far too belatedly, whether Ms. Harrow’s intentions were quite clear, but kept her mouth shut.

“We may need to go through this in more detail, then,” he added, apologetically.

“To be honest, you could just throw the whole thing out.”

“Oh?” he asked, politely, though his shoulder snapped to a perfect T and his hand nearly vibrated over the binder. “You’re sure? I’m afraid that would necessitate some longer meetings to go over everything again.”

“I don’t recall ever going over it in the first place.” It made her stomach twinge, uncomfortably, to acknowledge it, but mostly because of Becky’s acerbic voice saying, _Someone has to._

“Oh,” Coulson said again, more alarmed. “In that case – by all means.” And with a decisive movement, which was probably subtle for anyone else but a damn-near flourish for such a polite, restrained man, he flipped the binder closed and swept it off the table. “How about I take the liberty of putting a hold on your earlier media materials – People, and whatever photos came out of the session you did for them?”

Stella nodded, emphatically. “Agreed. What now?”

“Well, now, I go back to the drawing board.” For someone who’d just been handed weeks’ worth of extra work, he seemed inordinately pleased. “I’ll go through all records of your media coverage from both centuries and compile a list of things you may want to prepare statements on, and potential outlets for coverage rights.”

“And, am I assuming right that People won’t be on that list?”

Coulson’s smirk was a mere twitch, like the barest glimpse of a car after it crests a hill and is gone from sight, but it was enough to tell Stella she was right. Coulson though, ever the professional, only said, “Probably not. Or The View,” he said pointedly, “but that depends on you, and what kind of message you want to greet the American public with. You don’t have to tell me now—”

“I know what I want to say. I – I’ve known.”

Coulson blinked a few times – his primary mode of expression, it seemed – and then smiled. “Great. And what is that?”

“That even though I didn’t anticipate being back, my commitment to keeping America safe is as strong as ever. And even though a lot of progress has been made since I went down, there’s still a lot of work left to make sure equality and justice are accessible to everyone. And I’ll be focusing on women’s rights, to start.”

Saying it out loud, even to one man, felt good, and Stella felt herself sitting up straighter, crossing her arms as if donning the persona of Captain America could give her words more weight. Coulson, on the other hand, stayed impassive – except for around his eyes, which seemed to break rank as they crinkled at the corners. Though, as always, Stella couldn’t tell if his amusement was at her expense. Some days it seemed like the modern people thought even genuine concerns were just a farce.

“I know,” Stella added. “Too bold for the modern media, right?”

“Not at all. Though we’ll definitely have to pick the right outlet. I have some in mind – how about I email you links to a few shows?”

Stella sighed internally. Email – great. Clearly it was inevitable. “What about print media?”

He grinned. “I think it’s safe to say that all print media will cover your interview, no matter who you have it with.”

Stella sighed again, and forced a smile. “Great.”

“I know it’s a change from what you may be used to – all this live recording and instant exposure. But with the right interviewer, we’ll make it as painless as possible.”

She nodded, acknowledging his best intentions, no matter how unrealistic they turned out to be. “Thank you.”

They wrapped up then, with Coulson scheduling times to meet again and asking if he could have Jarvis keep him updated on any last-minute changes to Captain America’s schedule that would interfere. It was a practical solution, even if it caught Stella off guard. Especially when she watched Coulson and the ceiling greet each other as if they were old friends.

When, finally, they were saying their goodbyes, Coulson offered his hand to shake and said, “Captain, it’s been an honor.”

“Likewise, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh,” he called, once he got to the door, “and, if I may be so bold?”

Stella nodded, curious.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re back.”

Stella hummed and watched him leave, considering. She hadn’t actually heard that one before.

It occurred to her, as she returned to the elevator with an odd sense of accomplishment and nothing to show for it, that Pepper had been right about Coulson. She’d have to thank her, and probably eat a little crow.

____

Stella’s first order of business after that, as per a few follow-up emails with Mr. Coulson, were to let Heather go. It was an uncomfortable affair, which Stella bowed out of by sending her letter to that effect by email. Of course, she got a call on her little black phone immediately, with Heather in a fit of pique and, possibly, a few tears. Stella did her best to keep the guilt from showing in her voice – Heather had done her best, after all – until the fifth apologetic assurance that Stella was sure and wasn’t going to change her mind. It even lasted all the way until Heather asked who would be representing Stella now.

“Phil Coulson,” she said simply. “He used to represent Miss Potts.”

“Ugh,” Heather grunted. “That nerd.” Which was a word she’d heard directed at her – mostly from Natasha – but never with such malice. “Well, I hope you enjoy your boring military career,” Heather continued, primly. Then, “You know, I could have made you famous.”

And the suppressed dread that had been slowly leeching away at her stomach lining flared brightly, burning itself out in a flash like a match in a snowfall.

_No_, Stella thought, _I would have made you famous. _It was a satisfying, if vindictive thought, but it brought her little peace. It looked like she would have to eat a lot of crow, after all.

____

When Stella requisitioned Becky’s secondary classified files from Hill, she sent a barrage of clicks at her computer and then calmly said, “Denied.”

“What?”

“Denied.”

“Why?”

Hill shrugged. “Clearance issue. Sorry, Cap. You’ll have to bring it up with Fury.”

Which was about the last thing she wanted to do, given his tendency to withhold. To Hill, though, she just nodded, and then retreated to the safety of her own living quarters, where she tried to make sense of what she knew about Becky. Even contemplating where to start – it made her head pound. 

Becky was Hydra – or had been. She claimed not to remember much, but had a grocer’s list of intel that she was willing to share with SHIELD. To that point, she had been with SHIELD much longer than Stella had, and any infractions or obvious holes in her record had been thoroughly scrubbed clean. She had an arm that was, itself, a classified weapon, that she refused to let anyone see up close, and had actively misled her team into believing she was American ex-military.

She was also, somehow, the woman who had chewed Tony out, within half an hour of meeting him, about his commitment to team unity. And had chewed Stella out for shying away from the Great Unknown. Stella was embarrassed to even think it, but two hours in the presence of Mr. Coulson had made it clear what a crumb Heather had been. Which made Stella an even bigger crumb for not putting her foot down earlier.

Unbidden, Stella remembered the way Becky had casually thrown out suggestions of how to help Stella acclimate – how to approach modern food, how to style her hair. She’d asserted a level of influence that, frankly, left Stella wrong-footed, but at the same time… She still remembered the way Becky had insisted on helping Stella so that Becky wasn’t_ just some dumb Cossack girl throwing her life away for nothing._

_ God_, Stella thought, with a pinch to her brow. _Becky hadn’t even tried to hide it._ Stella thought of Peggy, inexplicably, and the way she’d sigh, “Loose lips, Stella. This war will be won on secrets alone.” Which was true enough, on the European stage and behind closed doors, alike.

But they weren’t at war, now. And Becky had hidden a lot of other things, months and months of lies by omission. What frustrated Stella the most wasn’t her own blindness – though that ranked up there, for sure – it was the fact that, even now, the person she most wanted to talk this over with was Becky herself.

Hesitantly, reluctantly, Stella weighed her phone in her hand – screen gone black and silent. It took twenty minutes to compose enough of her message in her head to warrant waking the phone up, and another ten to type it the way she wanted it. Although, in the end, she remembered what everyone had been pushing her to grasp, and went with brevity:

**Hi. May we talk?**

Afterwards, Stella stared, unmoving, at the brightly lit screen until it sent itself back to sleep. It stayed that way for quite a while, and so did Stella.

____

Despite her overall good impression of Mr. Coulson, and commitment to working with him now that she’d removed Heather from the picture, she still approached their next meeting with some anticipation. Starting from scratch meant answering a list of intimate questions that were as often unintentionally personal as they were intentional. He shook her hand pleasantly enough, and placed several thick folders and binders on the table.

He settled in, asking, “How have you been, Captain?” and she lied, brightly and convincingly. “Okay, great. Let’s jump right in, shall we? I collected every piece of media coverage that has lasted through the millennium,” he placed his hand on one folder, before moving it to another, “as well as a collection of articles, tweets and memes that I think cover the current public opinion.”

“My approval ratings are—”

“Are preliminary. I wouldn’t worry about them until the public has had something to form an opinion over. Something from this century, that is.”

“Oh.”

“Most people, it seems, are hesitantly optimistic, but wondering where you are.”

Stella winced. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“That’s fine,” he said, kindly. “That just means the time is right. And I understand what you and Ms. Harrow were trying to do – reach out to women in their comfort zones. But from our last meeting, it didn’t really sound like their comfort zones was where you wanted to focus.”

“No,” she agreed, emphatically. “I—” she let out a laugh, “I’d say I’ve been making people _uncomfortable_ since I was born.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. But I’m thinking, instead, why not reach out to the American people at their best, and show other women how it’s done.”

“I just don’t know where to do that. That’s where – where Heather came in.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. And I know we were leaning towards Time Magazine, but I reviewed all your old footage. And, well, I’ve always thought this, but I think you’re actually quite personable.”

She leaned back, suddenly wrong-footed. “Is that – I mean, I try.”

“I’m sorry.” And he said it so jovially that Stella wondered if she’d missed something. “What I mean is, you’re very engaging. You were very effective in print media, but it’s the live appearances that really swayed people in your favor. You, Captain Rogers, are a very likable woman.”

“I’m not sure if I should be insulted,” she said stiffly, and only half-joking.

“Please don’t take it that way. It takes a certain kind of person to tell an entire country to man up,” he tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the poor phrasing, “and have the country thank them for it. I think we should capitalize on that, and put you on TV.”

Her stomach sank. “Won’t that be harder to control?”

“It will be live, sure, but there are usually much fewer questions. And it gives people a chance to really see you in action.”

She was skeptical, and told him so, but Stella eventually noticed that the hand he’d left on the table was fisted, restraining him from unleashing his true enthusiasm, and she agreed to screen a few more videos. The show he was favoring – The Daily Show – hadn’t been on the list he’d originally sent her, because it was so overtly political. That alone, piqued her interest.

They discussed a variety of other affairs – her public name (Captain Rogers), the level of privacy she wanted to maintain (extreme) and her appearance (“no need to gussy me up”), not to mention everything in between. But even though they’d covered enough territory to map the entire ocean floor, there was one topic that hadn’t come up.

“A charity?” Coulson asked, though she was pleased to note he sounded more intrigued than wary.

“Yes. Between my backpay and SHIELD, I have more than enough to share what I have.”

“Of course.” He slipped a fresh sheet of lined paper out of a folder, and smoothed it out on the table. “Alright, what are you thinking?”

He liked her ideas, was more than happy to control the media coverage, but what he finally said was, “You know, we should really get Pepper in on this.”

Three days later, as per Pepper’s schedule, they were back in the same conference room, with Stella recounting the ideas of a self-defense gym and free clothing to at-need communities. Somewhere back at the Tower, she assumed that Jarvis was silently patting himself on the back for getting her up to date on modern jargon. And Pepper, for her part, was alight.

“Oh Stella,” she cooed. “That's such a sweet idea. And you're thinking specifically for girls?”

“That's the plan.”

“Well, it'll be quite enviable to get some of Captain America's free swag - the boys will all be jealous.”

That made them both grin, and she conceded. “Maybe we can expand later, if it's successful, but right now I'm fine with that. I specifically want to empower girls.”

But Pepper Potts, CEO extraordinaire, was already three steps ahead of her. “Absolutely. And I’m thinking, we can extend our help to multiple minority demographics if we only use female-run businesses to produce the materials.”

Stella perked up. That hadn’t occurred to her – there weren’t enough gals running their own shows to support an operation like this, last time she was planning this big. But it was a fantastic idea. “That’s great. And we could trust them to know what women actually need. I’ve been asked to find—” She glanced at Coulson, who was silently scribbling notes without looking at his pen, but he’d have to know sooner or later. “I’ve been asked to find athletic wear that cater to women needing considerable – restraint.”

It took Pepper a moment to cotton on, but when she did she laughed, brightly, and placed a hand on Stella’s arm. “Oh my God. Of course. I never would have thought of that.”

“Me neither,” she whispered, leaning in. “It was Natasha and Becky Barnes' suggestion. They offered to test drive the merchandise.”

“That’s wonderful. We should all sit down to talk details,” she mused, and Stella smiled ruefully.

“You know,” Coulson said, cutting in for the first time, entirely unperturbed. “I don’t want to overstep, but we could take this one step further. If you'd like to commission specific clothing for the female Avengers, a charity in your name could buy out the rest of the inventory and supply it to underprivileged girls. That would definitely give it the status to make it enviable instead of a hand-out.”

And like before, Pepper was on the idea and expanding it in an instant. “That could work. And we don't make it commercially available.” She swatted her hand on the table for emphasis. “Only the Avengers and the charity. Nothing combat-related, just your typical gym clothes, but we let these girls know they've got something in common with the women out there saving the world.”

Stella couldn’t be more excited, caught up in the possibilities of what they could do, and beside her Pepper’s grin was radiant. It was easy for Stella to see why Tony had fallen in love with her.

Which reminded her – there was another woman to thank for this – and Stella really owed her that apology, first.

_Damn_, she thought. _This is going to be a doozy. _


	12. CHAPTER 12

As per the very blatant requirements of this new century, Stella sent her message – her tentative apology and request to talk – in a text. And then another. But when that didn’t work, she took to calling. Her voicemails were short, and to the point, but after a week of them adding up, all she got was a long beep telling her the mailbox she had reached was full.

Which is how Stella found herself sitting in the hallway outside Becky’s apartment, back against the wall and knees up, talking to a door. The need for the truth – and possibly, the desire to see Becky – had put a long strain on the week, and Natasha refused to discuss anything but the missions with her.

“Becky,” she told the door, “I’m sorry. I’d just like to talk.” The door said nothing. “I need to know you got my messages. You can be mad. I just…” Silence filled the air, banished in spurts by Stella’s voice, only to invade the hallway once again. “I’m just going to sit here,” she called, “until you come out.”

She made the same request again, every half hour, though eventually she did it just to hear her own voice. After three hours, Stella pulled out a sandwich she’d brought – always the Ma’am with the Plan – and didn’t bother talking for a while. She did get up to stretch her legs and practice some calisthenics. The hallway was good for leg day – lunge steps, deep squats, and practicing being her own chair against the wall, which built both strength and patience.

After a good seven hours – in which Stella realized that Becky was skilled enough to come and go from her third story apartment through the window if she so chose, Stella started talking. Or, as it were, singing. She brought up every old Irish folk tune and ballad she could think of, from Too-Ra Loo-Ra to The Lament of the Irish Maiden. Not too loud – there were other neighbors, after all – but loud enough that Becky would have to open the door just to tell her to knock it off. She had just started singing God Save Ireland, and wondering if she should revert back to apologizing, when she heard two heavy footsteps, and a door whooshing open.

“In the modern world, people just text, you know.”

Stella looked up, locking onto Becky’s angry eyebrows. “But you can ignore those.”

“For fuck’s sake, get in here. I have neighbors.”

And so Stella rose, hanging her head like an old sheepdog finally let in from the rain, and followed Becky inside. As soon as the door shut behind them, Becky spun around, face murderous and arms crossed tightly across her chest. She wasn’t in her usual long black shirts, but instead a black sleeveless number like a fella’s undershirt, and her arm glinted sharply in the evening light. Her shoulder didn’t though, in an oddly striking contrast. It looked as if it was heavily-brushed metal, and Stella realized with a jolt that she’d never seen the whole arm before. She squinted, trying to make out the hint of a pattern that had been almost buffed away, and felt her stomach drop when she did. The hits – the signs – never stopped coming.

Becky caught her staring, immediately, and clapped a hand over the skull and tentacles.

“You can’t just show up. I don’t want you here.”

“I know,” Stella said softly. “I just needed you to know I’m sorry.”

“Well, I heard you. About forty times. So you can go now.”

“Becky, please. I made a mis—”

“Why? Why should I hear you out? Because you’re Captain America? Because your words are so valuable?” Stella stayed silent. “Because when I tried to explain to you,” she dropped her right hand to curl it against her chest, “nothing I had to say was worth your time. So fuck you, and your apologies. I don’t owe you anything.”

Stella’s mouth was dry, empty, the supply chain of words from her brain to her tongue completely cut off. Instead, she looked at Becky – and actually saw her. Her tank top, though clean, was stretched at the neck, suggesting she’d worn it several times in a row. Her braid was the loosest Stella had ever seen it, long wisps trailing down her face and fuzzing up behind her head. And her arm had dried spots of something, probably her breakfast or lunch, trailing along several of its plates, which she hadn’t noticed yet. It told Stella that Becky was more off-balance than she would admit. Stella wanted to say, _me too, _to admit that nothing had felt reliable, or safe, since she’d discovered the truth about Becky, and Stella’s own ineptitude. So, quietly, she admitted the other truth.

“You scared me.”

Becky huffed and waved the words away, flipping her braid behind her shoulder. “Pissed you off a hell of a lot.”

“Alright, yes. But I was damn scared, too.”

“Of a single ex-Hydra agent?”

“Not – no,” she hedged. In the face of Becky’s rigid skepticism, it was hard to form the words. But… “That I missed something so obvious.” Becky snorted, uncharitably, but Stella pushed on. “I don’t expect you to really believe this, but I – I mean, when I went down, in the ice—I know. It’s not news. But Hydra defeated me, that day, and the price is – this. Every day I find something new I’ll never get back. I can’t even say I’m a New Yorker anymore because this New York—” Stella turned away, biting off that fruitless anecdote. “All I’m saying is, I’m still paying what that fight cost me. And when I thought Hydra cost me you, too—” She trailed off, noticing the pointless pattern of Becky’s carpet, and unable to think of anything worth saying aloud.

If she thought Becky might exploit the soft underbelly she was exposing, Stella was wrong. Becky didn’t really respond to anything she was saying, except to comment, “You know, some people wondered if you crashed that plane on purpose.”

Stella looked at her, cataloguing that impassive face. “No. No, I had to do it. I think Schmidt knew that I would, and destroying Captain America was just as good as destroying New York. Better, maybe. But I – I had a good thing going. A life, waiting for me.” Not that she wanted to discuss the details of that life here, but it had been something to look forward to, once upon a time.

Becky’s face refused to thaw, refused to show an ounce of what she was thinking, but eventually she said, “You’re still an asshole.”

“I know.” But suddenly, oddly, Stella felt hope. Even if Becky was only too tired to fight, it was something.

Then Becky swore, quietly, and turned away, finally moving out of the entryway to her apartment. “And for the record, I was coming clean. If it cost you anything, that was on you.”

“And did it?”

“Did it what?”

“Cost me?”

Becky’s head whipped back around, her eyes flicking back and forth like a type writer, cataloging Stella right back. Her whole face was twisted up so tight, she looked like she might collapse into herself. When her gaze accidentally caught Stella’s though, she swore, and tore her eyes away. “I’m still mad at you.”

Stella nodded. She could accept that. But beyond that, she had to fight down a smile. “Okay.” But also, because little old Stella Rogers had never been good at holding back, she added “But you also could have told me earlier. I didn’t have to figure it out on my own.”

“Are you kidding?” Becky’s eyebrows and then her hand flew up. “You’re the most skittish person I know. You could barely be seen with me, let alone if you’d known I was a wind-up toy from the dark side.”

Stella knit her brows at the image that conjured, but let it go, for the time being.

“You would have run in a heartbeat,” Becky insisted.

Stella folded her arms, stubbornly, planting her feet on Becky’s shabby carpet. “I’m not running now.”

“Well, hallelujah. I guess I don’t have to leave New York after all.”

“What? Why would you leave New York?”

“Nothing really screams job-security like Captain America gunning for you, does it?”

“But I wouldn’t make you leave,” Stella started to insist, but a sharp glare cut her off. It wasn’t, in all senses, the truth – not if she’d believed Becky was really dangerous, really Hydra.

“It doesn’t matter. I’d decided I wouldn’t go, anyway. I worked fucking hard to build this life, and I’m gonna fight to keep it.”

“I don’t want to take it from you,” Stella said, quietly. “But I’d like to understand it.”

Becky sighed, a loud deflating sound, and her left hand swooped up to push wisps of hair from her face. It highlighted the brand on her shoulder, again, but when she noticed Stella staring this time, she just said, “Come on. This isn’t a story for an empty stomach. And I’m starving.”

Stella stood patiently while they ordered Thai food – Becky’s suggestion – which Stella paid for – also Becky’s suggestion. Then Becky said, “might as well get comfortable,” and they settled onto the couch to wait for delivery.

“So,” Stella started, gently, “your call sign was The Soldier?”

Becky nodded tightly, and her gaze was aimed mostly on the ceiling, rather than toward Stella. “Yeah. I had lots of names, in the local legends, but officially it was The Soldier. My handler, though,” Stella winced at the way she said it, “he mostly called me Athena.”

“I don’t get it,” Stella admitted.

“Athena? Goddess of War? Emerged from Zeus’ head fully formed, already in armor, ready to ensure the gods’ choice of victors on the battlefield.” The look on her face was one of such pure disgust, Stella didn’t know what to say. Then Becky shrugged, and added, “I dunno, he must have had some westerner in him.”

Stella said, “You’re not the only Goddess of War,” and when Becky’s exasperated look held a warning, she added, “I just mean, I know what it’s like to be turned into a living weapon and pointed at the enemy. But that’s not all we are. We were just people, first.”

Becky’s eyes, when she turned them down to Stella, were reflective as polished glass. And so, so sad. “Maybe you were. Because you still remember Brooklyn the way it was, and your mom’s recipes, and your old Irish ballads. I mean—” she laughed, wetly, “even your old war songs are _happy_ war songs. All I remember is –” she gestured, dismissively, and said something guttural in Russian that sounded so bleak it made Stella shudder.

“You don’t—,” she was afraid to ask, “you don’t remember anything from before?” And Becky pulled her feet up onto the couch, only to hang her head between her knees. “I’m sorry,” Stella offered. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“But.” Stella scanned the timeline in her mind. “You don’t remember anything before Hydra? Did they take you that young?” _Like Nat_, Stella thought, but Becky shook her head.

“No. Or, I don’t know. About ten years ago, now, I just woke up. And they told me to—” She cut off, abruptly. Her voice was rough, and distant, but she sounded like she had a story to tell, from beginning to end. “They were in charge, and they had this way of making time pass without me knowing. But one day I realized they didn’t have to be calling the shots.” She shook her head, eyes pressed firmly closed against whatever was playing out in her mind. “I’ll never understand why I didn’t just _know_ that. I was stronger than they were. I could have been free so much earlier.”

Becky voice cracked, even as she pivoted her face into the sofa, as if it could hide the plain anguish of her story. Stella raised one hand and, deliberately, pressed her palm against the remnant of the brand on her shoulder. She wasn’t sure how much sensation Becky had there – not much, maybe – and pushed her fingertips forward just enough to rest on naked skin, beside her shirt strap. Becky startled, nearly jolting away, before letting Stella’s hand settle there.

“How did you escape?”

Becky shrugged, minutely, eyes focused on something far away. “I just walked out. Once I realized I could, there was no stopping me. I mean – they tried but…” Becky’s eyes met hers, and Stella didn’t need her to explain. There was only one way to walk away from that kind of thing forever.

“I’m glad you realized.”

“Yeah, pal,” Becky sighed. “You and me both.”

Having the truth out in the open seemed to calm Becky down. The slump of her shoulders read as misery, but not tension, as she talked about the windowless compound she’d woken up in, as she described how her handler would taunt her with snippets of pop culture, because _that’s what real people have._ But not her, not their shining asset, the Soldier. It was that pop culture that alerted her to the freedoms of the US, and that became a model of American success.

“I devoured it,” she said, with gusto, as she somehow carried a full bite of noodles into her mouth with just two shaved-wood sticks. And to hear her tell it, she’d beaten her accent down with late night television, and met people in bars over sports scores and celebrity gossip. She’d developed a fondness for trashy magazines. “To a Russian ex-pat, that’s as good as gold.”

“Do you still read them?”

“Naw.” But then that cagey look came back to her eyes. “I mean, everyone handles stress differently, right?”

“I’m not judging,” Stella pointed out, but Becky only grunted. Stella tried to picture her stress-reading gossip rags, soaking in the celebrity details like ammunition. For someone who used Americanisms as currency, she supposed it was. It explained why Becky’s whole manner of speaking had sounded so incredibly American, but not really New York.

“Look,” Becky said, on a heavy sigh. Her fingers were swiping at the fraying tendrils of hair escaping her braid, but not to much effect. “I don’t want to fight. But I don’t want to have to constantly prove myself to you. Hydra took as much from me as they did from you.”

“I… know.”

Becky grunted, then nodded. “And no more threats of arresting me. Insulting your shitty PR lady isn’t a treasonous offense. She’s—”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone?” Becky pivoted all her attention onto Stella. “Gone, as in…”

“As in, I fired her. You— you were right.”

“God _dam_mit.”

“I thought you’d be happy.”

“I am,” Becky snapped. “I’m just mad you made such a five-act drama out of the whole ordeal. And I’m just so,” she sighed, tipping her head back down on her knees, “so fucking tired.”

Stella was, she thought, appropriately cowed, as she sat awkwardly on Becky’s couch. She ran her hands over her own knees, trying to think of something soothing to say, but couldn’t. Instead she just said, “I am sorry.” She heard Becky grunt, softly.

“Fine. This time, I accept.”

Stella tried for a tentative smile – it failed, and went unseen by Becky anyway, so Stella grabbed the food that had arrived and slowly slid it along the coffee table until it was right under Becky’s nose. “More noodles?”

As they ate, Becky flipped on the TV, which Stella assumed was as much to distract them as to fill the silence. The screen held some kind of athletics competition – not an organized sport so much as an obstacle course that rivaled some of the more extreme situations the Commandos and the Avengers, alike, had gotten themselves into.

Stella commented, “Bet that’s a lot of fun, when no one’s shooting at you.” But Becky was already asleep, face pushed between a cushion and a throw pillow. She was peaceful, in sleep, in a way Stella hadn’t known was possible. Her shoulders tucked in around her, metal obscured by the swell of the couch, making her look small and relaxed. Strands from Becky’s unkempt braid framed her face, in more disarray than Stella’d ever seen before. She was beautiful, in her stillness. It was no wonder, she thought, that Becky was exhausted. Now that the dust had all settled, regret curdled into a heavy, shame-shaped weight in her chest. Mostly over how she’d turned on Becky. But then, they both lived with their pasts looking over their shoulders, and she could only hope that Becky would understand.

Becky’s nap lasted maybe forty-five minutes – enough for one episode to end and another to start. When she woke, Stella saw her hand creep between the couch cushions, where she likely had a knife, or five, cached.

“It’s just me,” Stella murmured, and the hand stilled. Then she heard Becky yawn, saw her rub her face against the couch cushion where it was tucked. It pulled more loose hair from her braid, letting an entire lock fall across her face in one dark, dramatic swoop. She saw Becky twitch her nose at the sensation and, without thinking, Stella swept it back for her, tucking the whole thing behind her ear.

It was a mistake before she’d even finished. Becky’s eyes instantly snapped open, neck craning back so that she could watch Stella, avidly. Her eyes were somehow huge, endless like the midwestern sky, and Stella couldn’t see anything else. But she could feel Becky’s warm fingers wrap around her forearm, keeping her from pulling her hand back, and her chest gave one tremendous thump before it went too still and Stella thought she might suffocate, right there.

Becky's thumb traced the inside of Stella’s wrist. Quietly, carefully, she said, “No one would have to know.” 

“I would know.”

But Becky was already tilting her head, expression painfully kind. “You already know.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t. If she gave in, she’d want more, and that would risk everything. Stella managed to wrench her face away, looking anywhere but at Becky, but Stella could hear her shifting on the couch.

“Stella. It’s ok to choose a life that makes you happy.”

“Who says that would make me happy?”

“Because you didn’t even have to ask what I was talking about.”

She froze, caught out, and found herself enthralled by the sight of Becky once again. Her nearness was overwhelming, especially as two mismatched hands found their way up to Stella’s shoulders. It was startling, how a woman with so much power could be so gentle. That was something she hadn’t thought she’d ever experience, again.

“Stella,” Becky said, low. “This is your chance to say no. Because even if you’ve been an asshole, I’d like to kiss you now. And I think maybe you want me to, too.”

“I can’t risk—”

“Your shield, I know.”

“It’s all I have,” Stella said, weakly, but Becky only leaned in closer.

“Not anymore.”

And Stella, master strategist with an iron will, did not say no. 

Becky crowded in, pressing her open lips loosely to Stella’s and the very first thing Stella did was breathe in, sharply, from Becky’s air. There wasn’t that first taste of lipstick, which she was surprised to find she’d been expecting, but after that it was all familiar. There was a particular taste when people’d been kissing for so long, when their lips would tingle and swell and taste blood-hot like other, more intimate places; Becky’s bottom lip was so plush in her mouth that she found that taste quickly and, after that, she was lost.

The second surprise of the night – despite the fact that it was happening, at all – was how small Becky felt in her arms. They stayed firmly planted on their own cushions, like two teenagers ready to spring apart at the drop of being discovered, but Stella had managed to get her arms around Becky’s shoulders. She was so big in the field – so much moxy, so much anger – but here, in her home, she tipped her chin up to let Stella kiss her in the sweetest way. Finally, Becky pulled away, instead burying her forehead against Stella’s neck, and Stella made another attempt to collect her hair behind her ears.

[ ](https://verbalatte.tumblr.com)

“You should go,” Becky murmured, and she must have felt Stella freeze because she added, “not that I want you to. But I’m so damn tired. I’m either gonna fall asleep right here, or make a sloppy move I’ll regret in the morning.” She pushed off from Stella’s shoulders – not so much breaking out of her arms as letting them hold her upright. “But you can come back tomorrow?”

“Sure. I’ll come back.”

Becky’s eyes tracked hers avidly, much the same as Stella was doing to her, she assumed. “I mean it. You come back tomorrow, no matter what. I won’t play the maybe game with you.”

And Stella thought, _Yes. _And, _Tomorrow. _And, _God bless a woman who tells you where you stand. _

Becky walked her to the door, cautiously smiling. Stella would probably have worried she’d missed a cue if Becky wasn’t so dead on her feet. As it was, she pushed up on her toes to press a quick kiss to the corner of Stella’s mouth that left her bashful. It was a dumb reaction, after an hour of necking, but she couldn’t tamp it down.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

“Tomorrow.” Then Becky added, “After eleven.”

“Yes ma’am.” And Becky laughed when Stella tipped an invisible hat, and she figured that was as good a note to leave on as any.

“Goodnight.”

“Night.”

____

Stella’s good mood – stupidly, frivolously, alarmingly good mood – lasted until she’d crossed back into Manhattan and was making her way up to her apartment. It was chilly from Stella’s absence all day, and the sofa seemed, somehow, uninviting. Besides, she had too much energy to do anything as mundane as _sit._ She took, instead, to tidying up her dining room table, where a mix of mission files and ‘reimbursement’ forms were strewn in messy heaps.

It was mindless work, allowing her thoughts to drift through the day – how Becky’d dully recounted her time under Hydra’s control, and the legend they had turned her into while keeping her under their thumb. How she’d told Stella exactly where she stood – when she was angry, when she was tired, when she was about to kiss Stella oh-so-gently. In hindsight, it should have been easy to say no. Stella had been saying no, in ways, for months, and she didn’t believe that her submission to temptation had always been inevitable. More that, while she still had the immense reserve of strength it had taken to deny Becky in the first place, it… no longer seemed like a fight worth winning. She knew the kinds of battles in her life that had deserved that fortitude – like holding her mother’s frail hand in the consumption ward, or standing up to bully reporters. Or Hydra.

Jesus and Mary, the thought prickled the hairs on the back of her neck. She’d been making time with the enemy. Kissing someone that would have been target, had Stella not been under ice for so long. From a certain perspective, it had been a complete fluke that Stella had been found in 2011. She could have awoken during the Cold War to find Peggy powerful and married, and Becky not even born yet. Or Stella could have been resurrected just before the turn of the century, deployed to Siberian Hydra bases to meet their secret weapon – a beauty with a metal arm – ready to enact their own destructive Odyssey. 

The panic set in shortly after midnight, and lasted until Jarvis chimed alertly from the corner and asked if she required assistance. She snapped her head up, abruptly, from where it was bowed, and felt her muscles twinge from so much stillness. It was a good reminder to move, to breathe, to get her pounding pulse under control. She poured herself a glass of water, and retreated to bed, but not to sleep. Becky’s ultimatum was clear, though, and eventually, Stella figured she’d had enough of screwing up a good thing.

In the morning, Stella was halfway to Brooklyn with a bag of muffins that she was too nervous to eat when her phone chirped with a message that said:

**You better text me**  
**before you just**  
**come over.**  
**And you better be**  
**coming over.**

Stella responded with an ETA of fifteen minutes, that earned her a string of punctuation marks that likely made up several emoticons, and which she hoped were good ones.

At Becky’s door, she held up the bag as an offering. “Hi. I got muffins?”

Becky’s rolled her eyes, but stepped back to swing the door fully open. “Well, I got bagels, so we can carb load together.” Stella stood there, stiffly uncertain, and Becky added, “But I brushed my teeth.”

“Oh?”

“Which means you can kiss me,” she said, as if it were obvious.

And Stella said, “Oh,” and shuffled forward to do just that. Becky’s mouth was warm, and flavored with mint, and Stella groped at the counter behind them so that she could drop the bag and pull Becky in closer.

“I’m glad you came,” Becky finally said, and her eyes crinkled in such evident happiness that Stella couldn’t imagine saying no to this. This close, with the sun across her tilted face, Becky’s eyelashes were the longest things she’d ever seen, and Stella felt too big and too small all at once. She was full to bursting, over-energized, but immobile.

What she said, maybe a bit dumbly, was, “Gosh, you’re a looker.”

Becky barked a laugh, extricating herself to move towards the kitchen. “Come on, hot shot. Let’s get some breakfast in us before you melt down entirely.”

____

Stella had gotten her brain back in order by the time she went to the VA for hoops that afternoon, although just barely. Sam was mostly preoccupied by a visit from his old Pararescue flight partner, Riley, who he was intent on introducing to the young – and evidently available – First Lieutenant McCarthy. He did stop though, as Stella dragged a towel through her sweaty hair between halves.

“You looked good out there.”

“Thanks. Glad I could finally pass muster.”

“Just take the compliment, Rogers. That lay-up was risky as hell, but it paid off.”

She shrugged. “Maybe one man’s risk is another’s sure-bet.”

He laughed, and snapped his own towel in her direction, though she dodged it easily. “Oh, I see how it is. Just ‘cause you’re having a good day, suddenly you’re the best player out there.”

She shifted onto her heels, surprised. “It’s just a day. Got lucky.”

“Yeah, well. Come rub some of that luck off on Riley. He’s been trying to talk to Amy since the potluck last Christmas, but I don’t think she’s noticed yet.”

She trotted off after him, happy to share her good fortune, as it were. Or at least, watch the age-old comedy of a young soldier trying to sweet talk a dame.


	13. CHAPTER 13

Between gearing up for her television appearance and the charity, on top of all their regular in- and out-of-country assignments, Stella was suddenly extremely busy. Not to mention making time for a certain someone. Although that was easy – a reward, of sorts, for “doing her homework.” That was Coulson’s phrase, which Jarvis had jumped on heartily, showing her short reels of different “late-night” talk shows and running her through a list of affairs – current and otherwise – that might come up. Which is not to say that she didn’t get caught up in all the various information she was trying to parse, but the first time Becky had shown up at her door, unannounced, Stella had let her know what a welcome surprise it was. Stella had expected the knock to be Tony, who would sometimes stop by if he was stuck on a project, or maybe even Pepper, but instead it had been Becky, leaning in the doorway, holding a plastic bag and looking uncertain.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she’d said, waggling the bag a little.

“Not at all,” Stella’d said, with what she’d thought was excellent control over her excitement until Becky pushed up to kiss her and Stella had realized what a dumb smile was plastered on her face.

“I brought Thai food. They forgot the limes, but I picked up a couple at the bodega.”

“I can cut them,” Stella’d offered, pushing her work to the side of the table and plucking the limes from Becky’s hand. She’d cut them into rounds, humming easily while Becky pulled out a series of containers, and then Becky had wandered over and laughed at what Stella’d done.

“Is that wrong?” she’d asked, and Becky had hmmed and nodded, but her warm hand had slipped under her shirt to rub circles across her back while she did it, so Stella didn’t think it was too wrong.

____

Phil Coulson was a man on a mission, and within a week of deciding which talk show to pursue, he had her booked for the following Saturday night spot on The Daily Show. That gave them five days to get all her ducks in a row, all her ‘talking points’ sounding ‘on-brand’, and all sorts of other jargon he seemed fired up about. They met daily, if not to discuss details, then for appointments with a tailor and a stylist who had time to ‘work with her’ instead of just throwing a jar of pomade on her head and calling it a day.

Which meant that Stella had her own homework, aside from studying interview footage and political history, and it started with talking to Pepper Potts. Mostly, talking about Phil Coulson, whom Pepper said she trusted with her life.

“Really?”

“Oh – no. Not like that. But my public life, absolutely. I wouldn’t set you up with anybody but the best, Stella. Is everything alright?”

“Of course,” she said, quickly.

“Is there something in particular you’re worried about telling him?”

“Just military secrets,” she fibbed, and Pepper made a disinterested noise.

“Well, I doubt he needs to know about that, unless something’s been leaked. But I’m telling you, he knows enough secrets to sink the DOW overnight – not just us, the whole thing – so I can’t imagine there’s anything you couldn’t trust him with. Besides, he’s a big fan of yours, he’ll do right by you.”

Which more or less made the decision for her, not that it helped settle Stella’s nerves any. She asked him to meet her at the Tower, instead of HQ, and he agreed easily enough. She swept for bugs anyway, out of an abundance of caution, and asked Jarvis to enable complete privacy – including himself. If Coulson noticed any of that, he didn’t comment, only laid out several familiar binders as usual, along with a thin, leather-cased folder. When she asked about the new addition, he waved it off for later, and they were just discussing how ‘going viral’ could be a good thing when Coulson paused.

“Captain, is this what you wanted to go over today?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Because if there’s something else you think we should address—”

“No,” she said, quickly, with a tight smile. “Or, it can wait.”

“So can this,” he said easily, pushing the binders aside to fold his hands on the table. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s—” She had planned this. Knew exactly which words would cut to the point, require the least discussion. They were, in the moment, difficult to find. “It’s a matter of values.” Coulson hmmed. “And how a person can still value the country, while not sharing all its individual values.”

“That seems fair enough.”

“Right.” She flashed a polite smile, and cleared her throat.

Coulson hmmed again, but when she didn’t go on, he said, “Is there a value in particular you’re concerned about?”

Stella wished she’d thought to bring her training bag down from her apartment – she usually kept several water bottles in it, and her tongue felt oddly dry. She glanced up, watching Coulson’s easy patience slide into concern. The back of her neck flushed, because she never could control it, not when it came to this, and the idea that she was getting visibly red only shamed her further. Why was her mouth so damn dry?

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but you seem incredibly uncomfortable. Is there…” His splayed fingers twitched, but didn’t otherwise move. “Would you like to discuss this later?”

“No. No. It’s just—” His brows had knitted into a deep, worried crimp, and Stella had to look away. That was better, looking at the blandness of the walls. She forced herself to swallow, chin held high, and addressed the empty space around them. “It’s just that I’m a homosexual.”

She didn’t know when that word would stop causing that loud rushing noise to fill her ears – or if it ever would. Eighty years and counting, now. So, she couldn’t hear if Coulson said anything, but she watched as he raised one hand, reached it out towards her, only to abort the motion and rest it on the table between them.

“Captain,” he was saying, when she heard him speaking. “I’m so sorry if I made you think you couldn’t tell me.”

Her glance darted over to him, just long enough to give a reassuring smile – though, from his expression, it didn’t work. “It’s not you,” she said tightly.

“Okay.” He nodded, slowly. “Okay. So, I’ll admit I’ve never had this kind of conversation before, but for the record—” Stella braced herself – “this is okay. We can handle this. You can be Captain America and gay.”

Stella was afraid, if she moved, that the wetness in her eyes might become overly apparent, so she didn’t. She would blame it on shock, if he asked. Her heartbeat was doing its best to slow down, struggling against the jolt that had her strung tight and ready to bolt, and her whole body felt like one big pulse for several seconds. She had thought, if she were lucky, that he might be professional enough to disguise his disdain, maybe treat it as merely a hurdle, but the flat-out acceptance… Stella was surprised to learn that relief could throw a person out of whack just as much as heartbreak.

She swallowed again, chin still held high, and said, “That’s very kind of you.”

“My godson is gay,” Coulson blurted, and when Stella’s gaze snapped back to him, he looked as surprised at his own words as she was. “I know,” he held his hands up, “I know. What does that have to do with you?” He blinked rapidly, obviously flustered. “I’m sorry. I know that it’s important to get this conversation right, only I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s alright,” Stella said, and found that it was easier to look at him, now that the moment of her most extreme reaction had passed. “I just wanted you to know, so that we could… field certain questions appropriately.”

He nodded, eagerly. “Of course. This could open up a lot of questions. Are you intending to come out?”

“No! Mary and Joseph, no.” And, there was her heartbeat, back again to join the conversation. “But there’s always questions about whether I’ll settle down, what kind of fella I’ll put down the shield for.” She paused, bitterly, but he needed to know. “Whether the serum can be passed through conception.”

“We—” he blinked slowly, and again, “you don’t need to answer those questions.”

“I know,” she said, because she did. She had never answered them, and she wouldn’t start now. “But, if the truth were to get out, I don’t want people to think I’d been untruthful.”

“That’s very admirable.”

“It’s practical,” Stella countered. “My reputation depends on my word, so my word had better be good. But I have no interest in telling this particular truth, and I’m depending on you not to either.”

“Of course,” Coulson insisted, showing, for the first time, untempered shock. “I would never. And you want me to… help divert these questions?”

“I know you’ll often see the final list.”

“That’s true. Consider it done. And I can assure you, this will stay between you and me. But, Captain? Can I do something for you?”

“What?” she asked, wary.

“I’d like to send you some videos. I can link them through Jarvis.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued, “it’s more secure than email. And they’re really worth it, I promise.”

She accepted the offer, whatever it was, and took a moment to settle herself. She had half a mind to thank Coulson, but she wasn’t sure exactly what for. And the way his expression rested on the softer side of professional put Stella very much in the mood to recover some of her dignity. “So,” she said, “back to the binders?”

“Oh, don’t worry about them.” But even as he said it, genial as ever, his right hand came to rest on the new, leather folder.

“No, I’d like to,” she said, simply. She could see him pause, considering, could tell that he almost said no but, eventually, gave the folder an unexpected caress and slid it closer.

“This is actually something a bit more personal,” he explained. And Stella, despite herself, laughed.

“I’d say it’s the day for that.”

“Indeed.” His hand was back on the folder, but he seemed in no rush to open it. “These are collectibles of mine. I hope it’s not too forward to ask you to sign them.” With a minor flourish, he spun the folder and opened it, revealing nine little rectangles, each with her face.

“Oh my gosh,” she said, awed. “I would have thought these would all be gone by now.” The pictures were outrageous – her in her Cap suit, posing with the shield, or with a fist held high. One, even, of her running across a clearly painted backdrop of the Swiss Alps, victory curls perfectly in place even as the rest of her hair streamed behind her. She grinned, and looked up from where she’d been peering at them. “They’re ridiculous.”

“They’re mint,” Coulson said, a little sheepishly.

“And you’re sure you still want to me to? Sign them?”

He nodded, emphatically, and handed her a pen. “As much as ever.”

“You know.” She paused, considering. “The last time I signed something it ended up on Ebay.”

Coulson’s offended grunt was, perhaps, the most animated she’d ever heard him. “Not these, I can promise you that.” So, she took off the cap, allowed him to slide a little card from its sleeve, and signed it. Big C, Big A. And then another. “Just one more.” And then another.

“Why would you keep these?” she asked, curious. “No one knew I was coming back.”

“Oh. Um. They were my mom’s. We collected them together.” He pushed the final card back into its holder, and gingerly closed the folder. “She was the bravest woman I knew. Present company excluded, of course.”

“There’s plenty of ways to be brave,” Stella said, because this was a conversation she’d had with dozens of women back in the army, and it was as true today as then. “Was she in the military?”

“Oh, no. But, since we’ve already broken the ice…” He smiled, almost apologetically. “She knew enough to take an eight-year-old boy and run away from my father, so…” He stopped there, fingers clutching at the folder in his lap. When he could finally look up, he added, “She took the saying What Would Cap Do very seriously.”

“That is incredibly brave. I’m honored to have the respect of such a formidable woman.”

He made a sound that was almost a laugh, and shook a finger at her, even as he bent to slip the folder into his briefcase. “See, I told you. You’re even more charming in person.”

___

As promised, Coulson did send her a variety of links through Jarvis, all part of a project called It Gets Better. And when she did, inevitably, let herself cry, there was no one to see but Jarvis, and he wouldn’t tell.

She spent the rest of the evening in the Tower gym, caught between a desire to sleep for another sixty-six years, and the need to destroy something completely. Tony’s carbon alloys, it turned out, couldn’t withstand a lifetime of frustration. Or, she thought, wildly, maybe they just knew she needed to win this one. It wasn’t that she resented the progress, obviously, but she did, maybe, resent the proof that it was possible, and had still come too late for too many gals she’d known. Fellas, too. Or maybe, that while acceptance seemed within reach for so many people, it was still aloof to Stella herself.

When Stella couldn’t sweat out her bad mood, she turned to reading – some biography to empty her mind – but she still found herself perched on the edge of her sofa with her phone in her hand, hitting the Call button before she remembered she should text instead.

“Why hello-o, booty call.”

Stella winced at Becky’s warbling excitement. “I don’t know what that means.”

“But you know what it means when one woman calls another woman, and it’s too late to make any actually plans, but not too late to invite her over to _not_ have plans.”

“I—” Stella sighed, suddenly too tired to have called. “I shouldn’t have called.”

“Stel?” Her voice was instantly sober. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry.”

“That is not your nothing voice. What’s going on?”

“Just a hell of a day. I shouldn’t have called.”

“You already said that.” Stella didn’t have anything left to say, then, but Becky soldiered on. “Do you want to talk about it? Should I come over anyway?”

“I’m not lookin’ to make time.”

“Um. Make time for what? For me?”

Stella might have laughed, if Becky didn’t sound so oddly uncertain. “No, Becks. I’ve got all the time for you.”

“Oh, okay. Good. You wanna tell me what’s eating you, then?”

Stella did, a little wearily, but it turned out Becky was fired up enough for the both of them.

“I can’t believe you just told him.”

“I didn’t _just—” _

“Yeah, okay, but – Stella, that’s great.” That wasn’t Stella’s word for it, and she said as much, but Becky was undeterred. “Isn’t this what you were worried about? Telling people? But it went alright – really well, even.”

“We don’t know that, yet.”

“Oh, babe.” Becky made a deep, unhappy sound in her throat. It sounded a lot like sympathy, which made Stella itch all over. “If Coulson is as great as Pepper says, I don’t think he’ll let this backfire on you. And,” she added, a little hesitantly, “if Pepper is as great as you say, I think she could surprise you, too.”

Stella’s sigh was made up of decades of disappointment. “It’s not worth it.”

Another quiet sound came in through the phone, and then Becky said, “It is to me.” Before Stella could protest – because she could see what Becky wanted – Becky added, “I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m just saying, it’s really nice to be able to tell your friends about who you’re dating. Hold hands in public. The easy things, that everyone else gets.” Stella could picture her, in her apartment, frowning and tossing her braid over her shoulder like she always did when she was getting focused. “I think, maybe, you haven’t gotten to see how good it can be.”

“Not a lot of time for that,” Stella said, bitterly.

Becky said, quietly, “But there is now.” And then, with a new lilt to her voice, “I mean, aren’t you just dying to go on a double date with Nat and what’s-his-face?”

“Nat’s got a fella?”

She laughed. “Or Pepper and Tony?”

“Would _you_ want to go on a date with Tony?”

“If you’d be there,” Becky said, instantly, and Stella could see the hand she was playing – see the whole deck, even – but it didn’t stop a little spot of warmth from lighting in her stomach.

“Hey,” Becky added, after a long moment of silence. “I’m proud of you. For what you did today.”

And Stella didn’t have any answer to that, so she asked, “Do you want to come over?” and Becky laughed again.

Forty-five minutes later, Becky was in the Tower, in Stella’s apartment, curled up against Stella’s side on the sofa. Stella had an arm slung comfortably around her, and didn’t bother curbing the impulse to press small kisses against her cheek and along her neck.

“I thought you weren’t looking to make time?” Stella raised an eyebrow at her. “Yeah, I googled it on the way over.”

Stella shrugged, sheepishly. “You smell real nice, is all.”

“Yeah, well, I got something else for you, and you’re gonna want it.” Stella quit her pawing, intrigued, as Becky pulled a set of white strings out of her pocket. They were chunky at one end, and connected to her phone at the other. Becky brought one end up towards Stella and then oddly, awkwardly, pushed it into her ear.

“What are you up to?”

Becky shushed her, and then music started to play. It was foreign, at first, but then familiar like an old address and, finally, something she knew the words to. It sounded like a new recording – less grainy, an unfamiliar voice – but it was a song she’d heard since she was in diapers.

“My ma used to sing this,” Stella announced, in wonder. “But it’s old, really old. Where did you get this?”

Becky made a grand show of rolling her eyes, but her smile was indulgent. “It’s all online. There’s an app, for your phone. We can download it on yours.”

“But, how did you know?”

“I didn’t. I just asked Pandora for old Irish folk tunes, and it knew. There’s tons of them, you can make a whole radio station just for that.”

And Stella thought, for the first time, that maybe this internet thing had something to it. And then, not for the first time, that maybe this thing with Becky had something to it, too.

“Come on,” Becky said, “let’s grab your phone and try it.”

Which they got up to do. But then, somehow, Stella found herself in the kitchen, crowding a willing Becky up against the counter from behind. Soon, she had her hands gliding up under Becky’s shirt, with gentle touches, and then worked her way up to feeling the weight of Becky’s breasts in her hands. They were full, and warm, and Stella couldn’t resist giving them a little squeeze. She’d imagined what they’d feel like, before now, but the true feel of them was something else altogether.

Becky chuckled on a breath. “So, you’re a boobs woman, huh?” and Stella just hummed and kept right on with what she was doing. Becky’s nipples were little points begging for attention beneath the thin material of her sports bra, and it was not a hardship at all to work her hands under the elastic and greet them up close.

As fond as Stella was of giving a woman’s breasts the attention they deserved, she had been gratified to discover the majority of her partners had enjoyed her efforts as much as she had. Although there had been one girl, with them in the USO between Detroit and Mobile, Alabama, who’d been entirely uninterested in any proceedings above the belt. But, Stella found, her body had made up for it by giving her thighs so sensitive that Stella had no idea how she ever walked around in pantyhose. Stella had spent nearly half an hour teasing and caressing her there, letting her whimper and whine about needing more, before the girl had summarily grabbed her hand and put it someplace no polite woman would. Stella had been shocked – that was the first time she’d had a woman be so bold about wanting Stella to touch her there – but was happy to oblige, all the same. And all that teasing had apparently done wonders, because when she finally brought the girl off, she’d gushed all over the mattress in one, bitten-off moan. Ever the chivalrous bed partner, Stella had, of course, let her share her bunk until morning, which had marked another first of Stella’s limited but wondrous experience with women. That wasn’t necessarily Stella’s approach here, though, because while she had never really been one to stand on ceremony with a dame who was willing, she knew it was worth taking it slow, when you were playing for keeps.

Becky, now, was leaning back against her, letting Stella do as she wished. She could feel that her breathing was heavier, quicker, with her eyes squeezed firmly shut. It was several minutes of quiet attention with Becky’s hands clenching the edge of the countertop before she finally said, “You waiting for an engraved invitation to get on with it?”

“Hmm,” Stella murmured in her ear. “I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

From the way Becky’s head tipped back against Stella’s shoulder, she could see her beginning to grin. “Oh _please, _Stella,” she whispered, playfully indulgent. “It’s so _good—”_

“No.” Stella’s fingers, just cupping her breasts, stilled abruptly, and Becky’s eyes popped open. “I said if you did ask, I’d like it. Don’t do it because I want you to.”

Becky’s face went entirely blank. It, oddly, reminded Stella of the first day they’d met, and their inevitable confrontation. Becky twisted in her arms, maneuvering Stella's hands out of her bra, and Stella’s stomach seized. But Becky didn’t push away – instead, she seemed to wriggle closer, arms folded up against Stella’s chest and making Stella’s arms obsolete in their effort to hold her close. Then Becky looked up at her with wide, dawn-grey eyes and said, “You’ve been burned before, huh?”

It wasn’t a question, and Stella felt the momentary shame of being caught out. Memories of a night – and a girl – on a train, and the inevitable morning that came after, catching them in little more than their altogether, and with a disapproving audience, to boot. That had put an end to that particular friendship, and nearly her whole career in the USO. She’d let go of ever dallying with women again until, of course, Peggy, the very picture of discretion—

Becky’s fingers curled into her shirt, and Stella forced her eyes to focus.

Becky was saying, “Not by me. Honest. I want it, Stel.” A little tug on the fabric of her top. “Okay? I promise.”

Stella nodded, still intent on not jumping the gun.

“Come on,” Becky added, a little coy. “Would the Goddess of War let you do anything she didn’t really want?”

Stella, unimpressed as ever with that analogy, tightened her arms around the resilient woman in her arms and said, “She’s also the Goddess of Wisdom, you know.”

Becky laughed, throatily. “God, you charmer.” Then she gracefully stepped backwards to hop up onto the counter behind her, and reeled Stella’s body in between her spread knees. “Come on and charm me a little lower, hmm?”

Stella smirked, and quickly rucked Becky’s shirt up around her shoulders. Her whole torso flushed with goose bumps, and Stella chased them away with a swipe of her palms up her stomach and then in light, tight circles across her nipples. “Like this?” she asked, innocently, and Becky groaned.

“_More_. Next time you can play with them for hours—”

“Next time?”

“Next time," Becky promised, and then her heels dug into Stella’s behind, pushing her up against Becky’s spread legs and they both groaned at the contact. Then Becky’s mouth was on hers, wet and insistent, as her fingers roamed through Stella’s hair and under her shirt and dipping at the edge of her waistband. And Stella, so committed to giving Becky everything she wanted, let all thoughts of anything else slide away to puddle on the floor, alongside their rumpled clothes.

Later, once Becky had slyly indicated that she didn’t have to go home if Stella didn’t want her to, and had fanned her untied hair in waves across Stella’s pillow like a woman in an Italian painting, Stella watched her drift into sleep. And she thought, to herself, that she would happily take up the mantle of Athena, if it meant the woman beside her could just be Becky.

It was a genuine offer, for all that it was an impossibility. She thought of Peggy, again, and then Natasha, but also Pepper and her even own mother. Every woman who’d ever enlisted to fight and every one who’d stayed home to run scrap drives and look after fatherless children. She didn’t know a single woman who wasn’t the goddess of her own war, having one day taken of stock of what she’d become, and then decided to wield herself, lest she be wielded.

Beside her, Becky breathed deep and steady, and Stella thought, maybe, that this was what peace felt like.


	14. CHAPTER 14

Pepper called about the charity on a Thursday – and it wasn’t lost on Stella how much less she minded business calls when they didn’t require her to be on a plane within five minutes and counting – but an insistent Tony in the background caught her attention first.

“Honestly, Stella,” Pepper was saying, “ignore him. He’s spent the last three days creating a flying skateboard—” her voice suddenly muffled, but obviously yelling, “instead of the clean energy he promised us!”

“Think of the revenue!” Tony’s voice came in, tinny, over the receiver.

“Anyway,” Pepper said, back to the phone. “I was still thinking we should meet with Natasha and Becky Barnes to discuss their involvement.”

Natasha had been overseas for eleven days, with no sign of return, but that wasn’t the sort of thing Pepper ought to know. “Nat’s got a full plate, I think.”

“Hmm. Start with Barnes, then?”

“Alright.”

“Okay. I can have Jarvis find some time in my schedule next week – oh, wait. Oh, okay, I’ve got a thing and then we go to Japan on Tuesday. But you can talk to them, can’t you?”

“Sure,” Stella said, although Pepper would have a much better sense of what logistics needed going over. Before she really thought of it, she added, “Or we could have Becky join us for dinner on Monday.”

“Oh?” Pepper asked, and Stella winced at her tone. “I didn’t get the impression you two were close, the last time you brought her up.”

“Misunderstanding. But the charity was her idea, really.” Pepper hummed, interested. “And she’s a friend. Uh. Same as Nat.”

“Still though, the way Tony talks about her—”

“The way Tony talks about her is just Tony,” Stella said, hopefully without too much heat. “They keep things interesting, for sure, but I once saw Tony burn a whole hell of a lot of his suit's thermal energy just so she wouldn’t have to sleep in wet gear. I’d say they’re alright.”

“Huh.” There was a brief pause. “Alright. In that case, would you like to ask her, or should I send her an email?”

“I’ll ask her. When I see her. At HQ.”

“Great. Monday it is, then.”

Becky didn’t take the idea quite as smoothly, though, when Stella brought it up.

“You want me to have dinner with you and the Starks?”

“With Pepper Potts, and Tony, yes.”

“To discuss sports bras.”

“Not specifically. Honestly, I thought you’d want to.”

“I do. I mean, who would say no to dinner with the CEO of Stark Industries? I’m just trying to figure out the catch. The details of a charity – sorry, babe, but even your charity – is a lunch meeting, at best.”

“Oh. I, uh,” Stella pushed at some strands of hair that were getting unruly across her forehead. “I suggested it. It’d be on our usual Monday.”

“On your _poker night_?”

She shrugged. “We don’t always have to play. We could just have dinner, the four of us.”

“Oh my god,” Becky said, eyebrows inching up towards her hairline. “Am I your plus-one to dinner? Is this a _date_?” She seemed gleeful at the idea, and since they were currently in Stella’s apartment, she thought seriously of burying Becky under the couch cushions and retreating to her own bedroom for a while.

Instead, when she said, “No,” it came out with a waver that didn’t really help matters. “Not that they’d know.”

“I’d know. Come here, you big lug.” But Becky didn’t wait, and instead pushed herself over to Stella and up against her front. “You really suck at gestures, you know that?”

“It’s just dinner,” she mumbled, but Becky’s fingers were starting to trail through her hair in a way that did something to her higher brain function. “Pepper’s a friend.”

“Then I look forward to meeting her.”

____

Tony and Becky started the evening off by antagonizing each other, of course, which had Pepper shooting eyes Stella’s way, but they soon found a common love of whiskey over scotch that kept them amiable all through dinner. And Becky, as it turned out, knew a whole hell of a lot about renewable energy sources, which kept them all going.

The topic did turn, eventually, to business, where Becky officially agreed to commission a piece of training gear to be mass produced – which she’d already known about, but Pepper didn’t need to know that. Stella’s piece was already designed, and was modeled after the compression shirts that she favored, but made of a ‘quick-dry’ material that would address the sheer volume of sweat that she produced, and would be navy with a subtle red and white stripe in front of the left shoulder. Becky seemed to know what she wanted, but got bolder when Pepper never shot her down. They were spread out among Pepper’s sitting room, one embroidered chair each, the picture of professionalism, except for how Pepper had one leg crossed over another at the knee, and it bounced absently whenever she wrote a note about something. Eventually, Becky asked for loose shorts with a tight under-lining, and about seventeen concealed, sealable pockets. They whittled it down to five, for ‘scalability’ – Pepper’s word – because while seventeen was a lot, no girl should have to walk around without her ID, money or keys for the sake of fashion. That also led to the unanimous decision – the details of which were, surprisingly, called out by Tony from across the room when Stella was sure he wasn’t listening – to include a rape whistle with each pair of shorts. And while Stark Industries was footing the bill for the initial design of clothing, the mass production of them was on Stella. She was happy to do it – that was the whole plan, after all – but it gave Stella the idea that she and Tony might have some real stakes to play for in the weekly game, finally. Winner buys dinner, loser shunts some folding green towards the charity’s next stage of production. With as intently as Tony was apparently listening, Stella didn’t think it’d be a hard sell at all.

It was, all in all, a good night. Good company, productivity, and Stella offered to show Becky out, Pepper stepped in to give both of them a quick hug, saying, “You should join us again, Becky. It’ll be nice to have someone who doesn’t prefer cards to conversation.” Stella scoffed – they gabbed plenty, and Pepper knew it – and Pepper just waved them away with a smile.

But for all Stella was beaming with how the night went, Becky didn’t seem much inclined towards more conversation on the elevator ride down to Stella’s apartment. After a moment, Stella saw her move to the window, looking out over the nighttime skyline of Manhattan. To Stella, the thousand little windows lit up along the avenues made her think of the thousand other lives, right alongside hers, that she would never know. Stella had no right idea of what they were saying to Becky, and so she moved slowly, stepping up beside her.

“So. Where’d you learn all that energy stuff?”

Becky’s lips pursed, tightly, and then: “First rule of the American capitalist regime, always know where the money is going.”

“That bothering you?”

But Becky gave her a weak smile. “Naw. Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Just wondering where I came from.” At Stella’s concerned look, her shoulder gave a little twitch. “It’s alright. I was just thinking… designing my own clothes, dinner with two of the most powerful women in the country. It’s a lot.”

“In a bad way?”

“No,” she slid a warm palm up Stella’s arm. “No. In a good way. It just occurred to me, how far I’ve come – only, I don’t really know. I don’t think I ever will, because I don’t know where I started.”

Stella made a sad noise of understanding and looped one arm around Becky’s hip. “We could look, if you’d like. You wouldn’t even have to go back, I could sweep your old base.”

Becky’s laugh was mirthless and cold. “Oh, I did. Believe me. That place is rubble. I scrubbed it first, of course, but there wasn’t much to find. I only know they were taking children, and that their logs only listed the gender and,” her lips twisted, sourly, “date of acquisition.”

“Could you, I mean…”

Becky shook her head, liquid gaze fixed on the window. “No. But I found a local newspaper article from 1995 from a town eighty miles from our main base. It was of a family with a boy who, who looked like me.” She turned away from the window, finally, but only to start picking at a fingernail. “He’d won a bicycle race, so of course there was no mention of other siblings. But I wonder, you know?” Then she tilted her face up, towards Stella, but her expression said it all.

Stella gave her hip a squeeze and said, cautiously, “Sounds like you know.”

“Maybe,” Becky sighed, and leaned in to rest her forehead against Stella’s chest. Stella placed a kiss on top of her head.

“I mean, outstanding in his field from a young age, he must be family.”

And Becky laughed, miserable though it was.

____

“I’m pleased to introduce our next guest – making her _first_ television appearance this century. Please welcome – Captain Stella Rogers.”

Stella was already seated when the lights came up, sitting casually in a well-tailored pant suit. Both she and several SHIELD agents had secured the set of The Daily Show before the taping began, and Stella did her best to look calm. Mr. Stewart – ‘Call me Jon’ – had waited for the, frankly, uproarious applause to subside before starting his bit.

“Captain Rogers. It’s an honor to have you here.”

“Thanks Jon. I’m happy to be here.” She nodded to him, as poised as she could, and then once to the audience.

“Now, I have to ask the question that Baby Boomers and Millennials alike want to know: how’s the future?”

“Well,” Stella said, pretending to consider it. “What’s that phrase you guys came up with – Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger?”

The crowd cheered, drowning out Jon even as he gave a fairly convincing laugh. “Really? Seventy years in the future and you end up a Daft Punk fan?”

“Actually, that’s the only song of theirs I’ve heard. Someone showed me how to listen to music online, so I’ve been trying to catch up. But there’s been so much to listen to, you understand, that I just have to go off people’s recommendations.”

“And is that how really how the future feels? Harder, better, faster, stronger?”

“Faster, yes. Better, though? In some ways yes, but in other ways no.”

“Ooh,” Jon called, making significant eyes at the audience. “That’s a hardball answer to my softball question. And here I thought I was going easy on you.”

In a practiced move, Stella grinned as casually as she could, and turned herself to the audience. “That’s because I’m not really here to play softball.”

Again, the audience erupted, with a healthy dose of ‘oooh’-ing and whistling. She turned back to Jon.

“Can I get you to expand on that?” he asked. “Better but not better?”

“I mean, the healthcare – no, sorry, the medicine has gotten better. Healthcare, on the other hand—” She raised an open palm and wobbled it towards the cameras, and received more jeering from the audience.

“Well, Captain Rogers,” Jon said over the noise, and collecting his note cards. “You’ve spent over seventy years as a symbol of American justice and liberty, but largely in your own absence. Now everyone here knows what I think of the American healthcare system—” more cheers and booing, simultaneously— “but I think people are wondering if Captain America isn't a little, well, old-fashioned?”

Again, Stella nodded at the pre-scripted question. “Well, you’re right that some ideals haven’t aged well. But some of the things that were progressive in the thirties are still progressive today.”

“Oh? You mean, like environmentalism?”

“And immigration, to start with. On paper, the law has come a long way. But when I walk through Brownsville, I still see people from different countries living paycheck to paycheck because no _respectable_ job will hire them.”

“First of all, I’m not sure I ever imagined you _would_ be walking through Brownsville.”

“I’ve got to get to the subway somehow, right?”

“And you’re saying immigrant segregation and exploitation haven’t changed much since you’ve been gone?”

“Essentially…” Stella thought of it for a moment – that was a stronger statement than she had really intended to make, but he wasn’t wrong. “You have to remember, when the Great Depression hit, I was the immigrant.”

“Okay,” Jon conceded, “because your parents came over from Ireland shortly before you were born. But doesn’t that actually make you a first-gen American?”

Stella’s lips twitched. Maybe he couldn’t resist pressing her buttons just a little, but she had done her research. After all, it wouldn’t do for it to be obvious he was going easy on her.

“It’s funny what a difference a little wording makes. At the time, this phrase of ‘first-generation American’ didn’t exist, so the only word they had for me was Immigrant. Actually—” she broke off, “they had a lot more words than that, but I can’t say them on polite television.”

“Oh-oh!” Jon laughed. “Of all the things to call my show, polite has never been one of them!”

She conceded the point with a finishing-school smile.

“And veering away from polite conversation,” Jon’s eye caught hers over his cue cards, and she knew the good part was coming, “let’s talk about women’s rights. It’s what you’re best known for, outside of the western front.” He paused to let Stella agree. “And your ‘_no point to a woman in the kitchen’_ quote has been hailed as an early start to the women’s liberation movement of the 1960s.” A burst of cheering erupted from the audience, and Jon gave them a wave. “But,” he started, “modern sources have criticized it for not being progressive enough, stating that it is rooted in the assumption that women _do_ belong in the kitchen when men aren’t overseas. Is there anything you want to say to that?”

Stella was already chuckling. For something she’d said off the cuff to a pushy reporter, that comment sure had followed her around. Still, though, she didn’t mind Jon coming out swinging, because it let her respond in kind. “You know, Jon, there is. I want to say that it was 1942, and the idea that we were, at any point, not tethered to being housewives was pushing plenty of buttons already. Women’s time in the workforce was seen as an hobby, and I got plenty of angry letters from husbands over having to eat a cold supper or two. And,” she went on, leaning forward to the edge of her chair, intently, “female volunteers and enlistment went up forty percent after that, and you can’t tell me that didn’t help us win the war.”

A loud holler – decidedly female – from the audience made her pause, and take stock. She shifted back, settling her shoulders and looking back at Jon. “So, no. I think it was plenty progressive, for the time.”

“I see.” Jon tapped his cue cards, clearly suppressing some sort of smile. “And would you update that quote for the modern audience, if you could?”

“Sure,” Stella said immediately. Because this, too, she’d prepared for. For all that Jon was hoping she’d say something scandalous, he was also giving her the space to say what she came to say, as calmly as she pleased. She’d have to thank Coulson for the good pick, and Pepper for getting her set up with Coulson in the first place. And Becky, for… everything else. But that was for later. In response, Stella waited, as the stage left cameraman wheeled out of the wings, getting a closer shot of her face, and then she looked to the audience. “I’d say that if you don’t want to be in the kitchen, you don’t ever have to go back. And anyone who tells you differently is not in your corner. Plain and simple.”

The camera lights were blazing down on her, making it hard to see anything in the wings, let alone the audience, but she heard the clapping, people whistling, and even some stomping. She had to turn her head so they wouldn’t see the smile on her face. 

____

After the taping, Stella shook hands with Jon and then had a short, congratulatory debrief with Coulson in the green room, before heading straight for Brooklyn. Becky opened the door like she’d been waiting there all afternoon, and Stella allowed herself the indulgence of being kissed within an inch of breath.

“It went well?” Becky guessed, because of course Stella’s face had given it away.

She nodded. “Coulson’s optimistic.” And Becky rolled her eyes.

“Well, if you’re just gonna give me Coulson’s opinion, I’ll have to watch it for myself tonight.”

Which she was going to anyway, Stella knew. They’d made plans to watch it together when it aired, optimism or not, but that was still several hours away. As the adrenaline of the interview wore down into the calm comforts of Becky’s apartment, Stella realized she was starving.

“I could eat.”

“You and me both, sister.” Then Becky went to rummage in her kitchen, while Stella kicked her shoes off by the door. When Stella joined her, she added, “Don’t fill up too much, alright? I was thinking we might celebrate tonight, before it airs.”

That was news to Stella. “Anything particular in mind?”

“Mmm,” Becky hedged, but from the look in her eye, Stella knew she was going to like it.

They detoured by Stella’s apartment, later that evening, after Becky put on what she called her ‘clean jeans’ and the barest hint of makeup.

“You look beautiful,” Stella whispered to her.

“You don’t have to say that. All I did was clean up.”

Stella hmmmed. “Don’t have to say it, it’d still be true.” And Becky’s look was nine parts exasperated to one part pleased, but Stella always did enjoy putting a little heat onto a pretty girl’s face.

Becky’s plan, as it stood, was to introduce Stella to Grade-A American meat, at the best steakhouse that didn’t require reservations. The prices were exorbitant – enough to live off of for a year, before Stella remembered to adjust for inflation – but Becky just put a hand over her menu.

“My treat.”

“You don’t need to do that. I have more than enough.”

Becky snorted. “I know you do. But what if I wanted to celebrate your big day?”

Stella acquiesced, because one of the few things she knew for sure was that when your best girl wanted to treat you right, you let her. And boy, was Becky treating her right. Between the thick mashed potatoes and tender steak, Stella was having a ball, feeding her metabolism shamelessly and asking about all the words on the menu she didn’t know, like ciabatta and fois gras. Their waitress looked a little overwhelmed at how much two women could put away, but Stella knew when she figured it out because the head chef came out to meet "Captain America, and her associate." 

“She’s going to be on the Daily Show tonight,” Becky told him, and while Stella tried to brush it away, the man’s eyes lit up.

“I’ll make sure to watch it,” he promised, and Stella shook his hand.

All in all, it was an evening that, by itself, already ranked as one of Stella’s best since she’d woken up. But it got even better because, later, Becky slipped her hand into Stella’s to watch the interview, giving it a little squeeze each time she approved of something Stella said. Which, it turned out, was a lot.

When it was over, and there was nothing Becky wanted to rewatch – because you could do that now, just dial the TV back like songs on a record – she swung one leg across Stella’s body to settle herself on her lap.

“You did good,” she said, fingers threading through Stella’s short hair.

“Yeah?”

“Very good.” And when Stella caught a look at her bedroom eyes, she stopped asking and looped her arms around Becky to pull her closer. The sharp dip of her waist felt very small under Stella’s big hands, which was a feeling she adored. It made her want to press kisses all over her vulnerable stomach until Becky squirmed and told her to quit it. Stella figured, if she played her cards right, she just might get to. But first, she swept one hand up to the end of Becky’s braid, fiddling with the tie.

“May I?” she asked. Becky gave her a knowing look, but undid the tie all the same. Becky had rarely let her hair down, in Stella’s presence, and it had always been when they were… otherwise engaged. Now, Stella slipped her fingers through the long strands, wondering which part of the gentle wave was natural and what was leftover from the braid. With her hair swept in front of her, Becky could have easily walked around topless without revealing a thing, and it reminded Stella of the classical paintings of mermaids and sirens – exotic, alluring, and deadly. Unerringly beautiful.

“Whatcha thinking?” Becky asked, eyes trained on Stella’s face.

“Just happy.”

“Eh,” Becky said, coyly, “this is alright.”

Stella dipped her head against Becky’s shoulder, into her hair, and wanted to tell her not to do that, not to make Stella doubt. But then Becky pressed even more firmly against Stella’s body, carelessly familiar, to speak in her ear.

“Come on, Rogers. Don’t make a girl wait.”

Stella’s grip tightened and she parsed those words, making absolutely sure she read them right. Then she made her move, standing abruptly with Becky safely hoisted in her arm. She grunted in surprise, ankles locking around Stella’s waist, and murmured, “So it’s like that, huh?”

“Yeah,” Stella said, pleased as punch. “It’s like that.”

Becky laugh was an easy, peace-time laugh that Stella wanted to bathe in, but by the time she got her mouth on Becky’s, it was her gasps she was swallowing down.

Later, laying in bed, Stella let her hand sweep across Becky’s stomach, around her slender waist and the point of her hipbone. It was a familiar move, practiced a year ago, sixty-five years ago, and a thousand. “You’re so small, here,” she whispered.

Becky grunted, non-committally. “Yeah?”

“I like it.”

She hummed. “Not me. I like ‘em big.”

Stella teased, a little self-conscious, “You like big ol’ lugs like me?” She flexed her biceps against Becky’s skin, where she was wrapped around her, but was surprised to see Becky look away. Stella didn’t let up on the path her hand was making, mapping the softest parts of her, and eventually Becky said, a little regretfully:

“Goddess of War, closet Little Spoon.”

Though Stella couldn’t see her expression, she thought she knew what she meant. In answer, Stella pressed herself more closely along Becky’s back and placed a gentle kiss on Becky’s jaw. Her eyes closed, fluttering, giving Stella the sense that she’d just seen something private, something real. Becky didn’t add any more, but Stella wrapped her thick arms more tightly around her shoulders and whispered, “I've got you.”

After several quiet, comfortable minutes, Becky reached an arm back to drag short nails through Stella’s hair, lightly scratching her scalp in a slow, indulgent pattern. Stella felt like a house cat – kept, provided for, allowed to bask in the feeling of such excessive luxury.

“There’s a saying,” Stella said slowly, into her ear, “from the Old Country. My Ma always used it. She would say, _my heart is full_.”

Becky’s twisted in her arms to look up at Stella, and her smile was soft. She whispered, “We still have that one.”

“Oh, good,” Stella said, and kissed her.


	15. EPILOGUE

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hi Peggy.”

“Stella! My God, it is you.”

Stella shuffled her hands into her pockets, looming uncomfortably in the doorway.

“Come in, darling, come in. When they told me you were alive, I scarcely believed it.”

“You and me, both.”

“Surviving to see 1946 was a surprise to the lot of us, really. You just got yours a bit late, it seems.”

Stella stared at her, upright in her arm chair, looking just as lucid as her previous visit, only this time she really had Stella’s number. Stella floundered for something to say, only to regret it as soon as it left her mouth: “So, I heard you got married?”

And Peggy – wise, astute Peggy – studied her face at length, before saying, “Is that why you didn’t come visit me? Before now?”

“Pegs—” Stella rushed towards her, only to stop awkwardly in the center of the room. “Pegs, of course I came. Only—” she swallowed. 

“Oh,” Peggy murmured. “It wasn’t a good day, I take it?”

And Stella shook her head mutely, eyes fixed on the floor like it offered absolution. “You started talking about Lucerne.” Stella hadn’t let her get very far, of course, but all their favorite post-war fantasies ended in retiring to that nook of the Swiss country side. If Peggy really was all-there today, she’d catch her meaning. Which it seemed she did, if the small, pained noise she made was any indication. She bowed her head to study the knit afghan draped across her knees.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she whispered, “that must have felt very unkind.”

“More... bittersweet,” Stella admitted. She almost hoped that the years had taken Peggy’s hearing and, with it, her hushed truth, but Peggy was onto her, all the same.

“Come sit,” she said, gesturing to the stiff-backed wooden rocking chair beside her. And when Stella did, stiffly, Peggy grabbed at both of her hands and pulled them into her lap. “Now, I’m going to tell you this, only because I know you never were one to fish for compliments.”

“Peggy, you don’t—”

“I did get married.” _…to a man,_ goes unsaid. “And I had two wonderful children that I wouldn’t give up for anything. But I only did it because it was expected of me, and because,” she eyed Stella meaningfully, “there was not a soul on earth that could follow in your shoes, so I picked someone who couldn’t even try.”

Stella’s chest felt too full for words, lungs buoyed by Peggy’s confession until there was no room for even air. She swallowed, weakly, and squeezed at Peggy’s hands. For her part, Peggy laughed sharply, a sure sign that she was self-conscious. Then she added, “I bet they didn’t tell you I got divorced?”

For sure, they hadn’t, and Stella hadn’t managed to make it that far into her biography. Peggy looked downright pleased with herself, though, and Stella had to smirk at her delight. “Always making trouble, you.”

“Indeed. And this was only 1967, mind, as soon as the children were off to school, so I assure you it was quite scandalous.”

“That’s my girl,” Stella said, probably too fondly.

“I did meet someone more to my liking, eventually. She—” Peggy cleared her throat, “she’s been at real treat, these past many years.”

“That’s, uh, good. Peg. I’m happy for you.” And though Stella had years of practice at keeping a polite smile on her face, this one felt strained. As if to offset the tension, or maybe just her own jealousy, Stella added, “I’ve actually met someone, too. Recently,” she added, in a rush. “It took a while—”

“She’s good to you?” Peggy prompted.

“Too good, I think.”

“That’s grand,” Peggy cut in, her cheerful expression looking as sharp as Stella’s own. “It can be done, these days. Even for Captain America, if you wanted to.”

“So she says."

“Good. Though, now that that’s covered,” and she paused to readjust some tiny detail of the blanket across her lap, and cleared her throat. “I’m thinking maybe we’ll leave other women out of the conversation. What do you think?”

“Works for me,” Stella agreed, and Peggy laughed again, still too brittle. Her gaze swayed up to the ceiling, where it lingered.

“What an old biddy you must think I am, jealous over some young girl who’s caught your attention.”

In response, Stella pulled Peggy’s left hand to her lips, pressing a wet kiss to the back of it. And then, just a few inches down but well over the line of decency, she left another one on the inside of her wrist. Peggy’s eyelashes fluttered, just like they used to, and somehow it brought Stella a sense of calm. Peggy was the same straight-talking, nearly unflappable woman she’d always been, but Stella was still able to get under her skin, just the littlest bit. “You’ll always be my girl,” she added, just to watch Peggy’s pleased expression once again.

“You charmer,” she chastised, but Stella wasn’t sorry in the least. Not then, and not when she bid Peggy farewell, promising to visit again.

“Oh,” she stopped in the doorway. “I meant to tell you. We started a charity to teach girls how to fight. I thought you’d like that.”

“I do,” Peggy agreed, and motioned to a side table full of glossy titles, the top of which was outlined in a sharp red border. “I read about it in your fancy magazine.”

Stella grinned, only a little bashful. After the Daily Show, she’d done an extensive interview with Time, posing on the cover in casual collared shirt and blazer and ‘enough makeup to look natural’. It pleased something in her to know that Peggy had read it. Stella wondered if she’d also seen the caricature that had gone around of Captain America dragging a woman out of a kitchen while two children sobbed behind her, but she figured Peggy would get a kick out of that one too.

“But they didn’t tell you we’re also going to be sponsoring athletic wear for women.” Peggy’s eyebrow went up questioningly. “I, uh, I’ve been tasked to find a brassiere that can support the more fortunate of women during combat.” She gestured, delicately, in Peggy’s direction, who then barked out a laugh.

“Stella Rogers, you don’t know the first thing about a good bra except how to take it off.”

Stella laughed too, rubbing a hand wryly across her forehead. “But if that’s what people want…”

Peggy snorted indelicately. “The people want,” she muttered. “Those always were your two favorite things – fighting and breasts. I’ll be damned if that isn’t your whole personality in a nutshell.”

And Stella, cheeks warm and tight from grinning, couldn’t say she was wrong.

____

Stella loved Peggy – always would do, she suspected. Though, Becky had been right to push Stella into visiting again. Seeing Peggy now, whole, had soothed an unnamed fear inside her, as did knowing that Peggy’s fondness for her was untainted by her death. It was proof that the life Stella had been building in 1945 had been beloved, and was mourned, by Peggy, as much as it was the assurance that Peggy was well looked after now. It let Stella take that great surge of emotion that overwhelmed her when she thought of her first love, and place it on a short list of things in her life that, though over, were done right.

She had a new list, now, of things to get done properly. Reintroducing herself to the American people had been the first step of that. And the second, she knew, was earning the heart of her wartime Athena, with the gift of a little peace. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On February 3, 2012, with both Becky and Jarvis’ help, Stella sent her first tweet out into the world. Jarvis called it ‘rather witty, Captain’, whereas Becky insisted it ‘broke the internet’.

It read, simply:

**Hello? Is this thing on?**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading! I can't believe it's over. This was such a labor of love, and I didn't know until it was almost done that it was going to combine all the things I really care about into one massive plotline. Also, as much as I love and ship canon Stucky above all else, it was really nice to write female characters for a change, with all their complexities and concerns about things that, quite frankly, don't usually make it into polite conversation or male-centric fic. 
> 
> If anyone comes across some glaring historical inaccuracies, let me know. I put a lot of effort into trying to make Stella's point of view as historically accurate as possible, and learned quite a few things along the way. For example, did you know that women wore corsets up through the very early 1900s, until they were banned during WWI? Apparently all the metal boning in those corsets was made of steel, which was required for the war effort. And with all the steel the saved by not making corsets, a whopping TWO battleships were built. But also, thus was the modern bra born. 
> 
> I want to point out, again, that verbalatte creates absolutely adorable art that you should check out on [tumbr](https://verbalatte.tumblr.com). There's no direct link to the art she created for this fic because of (hopefully temporary) tumblr shenanigans, but she's got lots of great stucky art that you should all check out.
> 
> And lastly, again, my undying gratitude to elvelethril. She's been my beta just about as long as I've been writing fic (ie, forever), but it's been a long time since either of us did anything fannish. I'm so glad I didn't have to wade back into a sfic without her, because getting her first reaction of what does and doesn't work is nearly half the fun. And there's no one on earth I trust more to help me put something good out into the vast reaches of the internet <3


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